Skin Salve of the Tarnished

Long ago there lived a people of radiant splendor—the Golden. Their skin shone with the brilliance of the sun, their beauty unmatched by any who came before or after. They were artisans, philosophers, and masters of the hidden arts, dwelling in luminous cities hidden within craggy peaks and mountain vales, where walls shimmered like polished gold.

Their radiance was no accident of birth but the result of a secret knowledge—a legendary salve, crafted with mastery from rare and precious elements drawn from the depths of the earth. With each anointment, their golden glow was renewed, untarnished by time, unsullied by decay. It was a gift of their wisdom, a symbol of their greatness, and a power known only to them.

 But the heavens grew jealous. 

The mighty creator of the Golden, believing such beauty was reserved only for the gods themselves - cast their wrath upon the Golden Men. A great storm of fire and shadow tore across the world, swallowing the skies, drowning their shining cities in an endless night of ash and ruin. Yet even as the world withered, the Golden Men remained untouched—their skin still gleamed, their gold undimmed. The storm had not stolen their radiance. 

And so, the creator took something far worse. 

The darkness did not strip them of their beauty; it twisted their very souls. In the suffocating blackness, something within them turned. Their hearts grew heavy with sorrow, then resentment, then rage. The Golden became wretched things, their minds poisoned, their voices thick with spite. Their gleaming skin, once a mark of their divinity, became a mockery of what they had lost. Their faces withered, and their once-shining skin, dulled to bronze and then ashen black.

And so, in their hatred, they lost the one thing that had set them apart.

Their sacred salve—the source of their golden radiance—was forgotten. The knowledge to craft it slipped from their grasp, tainted by the corruption that had taken root in their souls. No matter how they tried, their hands trembled, their mixtures curdled, their alchemy failed. The last of the salve was lost to time, its light fading from their ruined halls.

 And the Golden, now truly Tarnished, retreated into the depths, their beauty corrupted into a hated memory.

Yet some say the salve still exists.

 In the ruins of their lost cities, buried beneath the stone and ash, the last remnants of the sacred balm may yet remain. It is whispered that those who find it may restore their own skin to a golden sheen, shining as the Golden once did.

But the Tarnished have not forgotten their loss. And if ever they catch even the slightest hint of their stolen radiance upon another, they will rise from the abyss, clawing toward the light desperate to take back what was once theirs…

“A fantastical tale, to be sure! But within all legends, there remains a grain of truth, and that is far more than enough for us to take it seriously…”

– Veylins Archivist on the origin of “The Salve of the Tarnished”