Welcome to Enshrined

Reality is not ruled—it is endured. Trapped on an island where gods, mortals, and beasts struggle in an endless cycle against forces beyond their grasp, the world shifts like the tides.

WILL YOU CARVE YOUR OWN PATH?

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Bend the island’s reality, or fall to its power?

Swear fealty to the gods or carve your throne in blood. Craft anything from the world around you as you fight to survive. Every choice shapes your path.

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Alchemist’s Harvest

Master the art of alchemy with a refined potion crafting system. Combine ingredients, experiment with effects, and turn every hunt into an opportunity. With expanded loot tables for creatures and plants, every battle holds the key to your next creation

Creed mark System

Shape your legacy with the Creedmark System. Build alliances, earn favor, or make enemies as your reputation spreads beyond the party. Forge connections, unlock unique rewards, and carve out your place in a world that remembers your choices

Forgebinder

Forge your own destiny with modular weapon and armor crafting. Gather components from your adventures, steal them, buy them, craft them, or take them from fallen foes. As you grow, so do your weapons and armor, evolving alongside their wielder.

Here’s some art for you!

On this island, gods, mortals, and beasts are caught in an unending struggle, where death is not an end but an opportunity. Fate binds all, even the divine, shackled by invisible and unbreakable laws.

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The World of Enshrined

Reality is not ruled, it is endured.

On this island, gods, mortals, and beasts struggle in an endless cycle where death is not an end but an opportunity. Fate binds all, even the divine, shackled by laws unseen and unbroken.

Everyone carries their burdens. The echoes of fallen gods seep into the roots of the earth and the void of the sky, altering flesh, and twisting minds. To walk this land is to brush against divinity, but divinity is no gift. It is hunger. It is wrath. It is the slow, creeping touch of something vast and uncaring.

Power is never given, only taken, and always at a cost. Those who rise carve their names into the world’s core. But the deeper they cut, the less of themselves remains. Every triumph leaves a scar. 

The island does not reward ambition. It devours it.

Beyond them, mysterious Wardens tirelessly patrol forbidden lands, indiscriminately striking down trespassers. Rune Mites build living fortresses and the Mung devour endlessly, cursed with an insatiable hunger.
Beyond them, mysterious Wardens tirelessly patrol forbidden lands, indiscriminately striking down trespassers. Rune Mites build living fortresses and the Mung devour endlessly, cursed with an insatiable hunger.
Even the gods are not safe—executioners and victims alike, bound by riddles of their own making. To worship them is to gamble with madness; to defy them is to risk something worse.  The island watches, waits, and remembers
Even the gods are not safe—executioners and victims alike, bound by riddles of their own making. To worship them is to gamble with madness; to defy them is to risk something worse.  The island watches, waits, and remembers
The gods suffer. Shackled and silenced, torn apart by their very essence. Their agony is boundless, and so too must be ours. In their torment, we find kinship and strength through that kinship. It moulds us, grants us the means to endure barren lands, dominate our foes, and carve purpose from a world adrift in chaos.
The gods suffer. Shackled and silenced, torn apart by their very essence. Their agony is boundless, and so too must be ours. In their torment, we find kinship and strength through that kinship. It moulds us, grants us the means to endure barren lands, dominate our foes, and carve purpose from a world adrift in chaos.
The gods are not kings upon thrones nor beasts of storm and fury. They do not walk among us, nor need us. Yet we insist on carving their forms, whispering their names or building temples that crumble beneath their silence. We shape them to hide the truth… we are not their children, only their muffled echoes. To journey into this world is to walk through the scars of their struggle. The gods are not stories. They are the world itself.
The gods are not kings upon thrones nor beasts of storm and fury. They do not walk among us, nor need us. Yet we insist on carving their forms, whispering their names or building temples that crumble beneath their silence. We shape them to hide the truth… we are not their children, only their muffled echoes. To journey into this world is to walk through the scars of their struggle. The gods are not stories. They are the world itself.
The living were never meant to commune with the gods, kept at a distance by ritual. The air flickers, the water thickens and the earth bleeds with something unnatural. You will feel it in your bones. All who touch it are changed. Some subtly, others beyond recognition. To explore this world is to brush against something vast and feel it looking back. No one leaves untouched.
The living were never meant to commune with the gods, kept at a distance by ritual. The air flickers, the water thickens and the earth bleeds with something unnatural. You will feel it in your bones. All who touch it are changed. Some subtly, others beyond recognition. To explore this world is to brush against something vast and feel it looking back. No one leaves untouched.
There is no righteousness, only hunger, only the will to endure. No force is purely good or wholly wicked… all things are a cycle of creation and decay. The Rune Bastion is proof, a churning monolith of devouring things, shaping flesh and ruins into something new, then moving on never sated.
There is no righteousness, only hunger, only the will to endure. No force is purely good or wholly wicked… all things are a cycle of creation and decay. The Rune Bastion is proof, a churning monolith of devouring things, shaping flesh and ruins into something new, then moving on never sated.
The gods are conflict made flesh, their bodies and the earth itself stained by endless war. We, somewhat, their wretched spawn, are cursed to inherit their suffering… Twisted by their folly, broken by their wrath, and shackled to a fate that was never ours to choose.
The gods are conflict made flesh, their bodies and the earth itself stained by endless war. We, somewhat, their wretched spawn, are cursed to inherit their suffering… Twisted by their folly, broken by their wrath, and shackled to a fate that was never ours to choose.
The gods are not their names or their forms, only what we imagine them to be. One calls them salvation, another ruin. Neither is wrong. They exist in shadow, in whispers, in what remains. And still we seek them. Because something waits beyond the ruins, and that is enough.
The gods are not their names or their forms, only what we imagine them to be. One calls them salvation, another ruin. Neither is wrong. They exist in shadow, in whispers, in what remains. And still we seek them. Because something waits beyond the ruins, and that is enough.

Pledge for Worship Sacrifice for Purge for The Gods

On this island, gods, mortals, and beasts are caught in an unending struggle, where death is not an end but an opportunity. Fate binds all, even the divine, shackled by invisible and unbreakable laws.

Mung
He Who Savours All
Mung was never meant to know hunger. It was the first need, the first desire. Now it writhes beneath the world, buried where no feast can reach it, where no flesh can satisfy its endless craving. Yet it waits. Its roots reach up, giving rise to grotesque sanguine-trees. The fruit calls… a whisper in bone, a promise the blood. Those who eat it are changed, hollowed and filled again with Mung’s insatiable will. They devour, they spread, they serve. Their feasts are not indulgences, but rituals. Each bite brings the god closer to the surface.
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Professor Guildwallin
The Pedagogue
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Nagla
The blooming one
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Adulthun
The Chained
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Ohnal
The Guilty
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Ptsunomi
The Whisper in the Storm
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Kib
The Nine Fold
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Mung
Tree god of sacrifice
Mung was never meant to know hunger. It was the first need, the first desire. Now it writhes beneath the world, buried where no feast can reach it, where no flesh can satisfy its endless craving. Yet it waits. Its roots reach up, giving rise to grotesque sanguine-trees. The fruit calls… a whisper in bone, a promise the blood. Those who eat it are changed, hollowed and filled again with Mung’s insatiable will. They devour, they spread, they serve. Their feasts are not indulgences, but rituals. Each bite brings the god closer to the surface.
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Professor Guildwallin
The Blue Scholar
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Nagla
The Blooming
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Adulthun
The trapped
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Ohnal
The Guilty
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Ptsunomi
The Whisper in the Storm
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Kib
The Nine Fold
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Will you Carve your own path?

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He Who Savours All

Mung

Mung was never meant to know hunger.

It was the first need, the first desire. Now it writhes beneath the world, buried where no feast can reach it, where no flesh can satisfy its endless craving. Yet it waits.

Its roots reach up, giving rise to grotesque sanguine-trees. The fruit calls… a whisper in bone, a promise the blood. Those who eat it are changed, hollowed and filled again with Mung’s insatiable will. They devour, they spread, they serve. Their feasts are not indulgences, but rituals. Each bite brings the god closer to the surface.

Mung Followers copyB
The Pedagogue

Guildwallin

There was a time when Guildwallin spoke, and the world listened

But knowledge, granted too easily, is a bitter curse. Drifting between the veils of reality, the all-knowing god(ALTERNATIVELY – THE BLUE TRAVELER) is now a silent spectre, endlessly gathering wisdom across the world, that can never be shared.


Its words rot in the air, dissolving into nonsense before reaching mortal ears. Its hands carve madness and its visions are twisted into cryptic scribbles. A god of understanding, now consumed by incomprehension. Yet it does not stop. It cannot. Even as the truth it carries unravels its mind

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The blooming one

Nagla

Change is life. Death is renewal

This was Nagla’s law. But laws are meant to be broken. In its wake, Nagla rots within the wheel it once turned, bound to an endless, festering loop. The god of growth is trapped in blooming decay. It has died a thousand deaths and drawn its first breath a thousand more. The first time, Nagla wept. The thousandth time, it laughed. The millionth, it simply stared. Empathy has withered into repetitive mud, and pain lingers like a fading memory.
Nagla watches the world turn, unmoved by agony, untouched by joy

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The Chained

Alduthun

God of travel, the journey, exploration and natural discovery

Alduthun’s punishment is to be chained in place, facing the earth and surrounded by obscuring clouds and peaks, never to see a new sight or have a new experience.

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The guilty

Ohnal

God of order, ruling, judgement and control

Ohnal’s punishment is to be saddled with the guilt for all wrongs in the world as well as having control over even their own form wrested from them. Each hand, foot and eye act independently, incapable of coordination and thus incapable of truly restoring order.  

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The whisper in the storm

Ptsunomi

Ptsunomi is the goddess of fortune, humility and subtlety

Being the closest to her worshipers, Ptsunomi was by far the most human on the gods and delighted in bringing good fortune to her children. Her punishment is that while she may continue bestowing blessing upon her followers, they are to be subtle to the point of being mistaken for happenstance or being attributed to efforts of the one who benefits from her attentions. In a world where other people receive obvious boons from their gods, Ptsunomi’s followers believe themselves abandoned and score her instead.

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The nine fold

Kib

God of ego, mastery and conquest

Kib’s punishment was to be shattered into 9 fragments, each representing one aspect of their dominion. Where once was the mightiest of the gods, now their power is split, reduced to the point where they can but survive, their ego’s stopping them from cooperating except to stave off destruction.

Kib followers copyB