AFK Arena · Hero

Skriath

Desert Arbiter

🪓Maulers🔮MageAwakened🔮MagicalContinuous DamageAwakened

Maulers, Mage

Stats Stats at any level →

HP810785

ATK60003

DEF10662

Magic Resist10662

Profile

At the farthest edge of the endless river of time, Orthros stood in silence, his gaze fixed on two parallel timelines. Ever since he first sensed the presence of that foreign world, he'd watched with care. But the longer he stared, the more he felt something strange within it—the current of that timeline flowed unnaturally. Moments he once overlooked hung motionless, like paintings forgotten by time. Yet whenever his eyes fell upon them, they would tremble, shiver, and begin to flow again. One such ripple, a fracture born of the Maulers' fate, drew his focus. And before he realized it, Orthros had stepped into the current of time itself... <c><line></c> The divergence began with the assassination of the Mauler Chieftain. In the timeline Orthros knew, the Mauler Chieftain Makneok was assassinated by the Quicksand Claws. He succumbed to his wounds, and the tribe sank into years of blood feuds and chaos. But in this timeline, Makneok survived at the cost of an eye and an arm. Although alive, he couldn't escape the poison corroding his veins. The pain gnawed at him, the venom eating away his reason, until the once steady chieftain turned paranoid and cruel. To secure his rule, he ordered the Quicksand Claws wiped out and used the purge as an excuse to cleanse his own people. Power, once scattered among the clans, was drawn tightly into his grip and the Maulers entered an age of empire, ruled with an iron fist. During the purges, the elder of the Falkins seized the chance to pledge his loyalty, helping Makneok ruthlessly crush rivals. The centuries-old tradition of the Blood Claw was abolished and to prove their devotion, the Falkins turned on their own, hunting down dissenters and even casting kin into the barren desert. Among the exiled was a young clansman named Skriath. "Caught up in the show, are you? Didn't I say their fate was never in your hands?" Zolrath had appeared without a sound, breaking Orthros' concentration. "You're right," Orthros replied, still watching the twisting current below. "But the same holds true for you." Zolrath chuckled softly and said nothing more, letting the silence carry his meaning. The Celestial sworn to uphold time's order and the Hypogean who delighted in breaking it didn't clash this time. Instead, they stood like two outcasts at the gates, condemned to watch from afar. Skriath had forgotten how far he'd wandered. The sun blazed overhead, his cracked throat gasping for air, while burning sand tore his feet raw, leaving a trail of bloody prints behind him. Through the wavering haze of heat, he caught sight of a body slumped on the dune ahead—one of his kin, exiled with him. "The seventh... Am I the last one left?" Skriath's strength gave way. He staggered, then collapsed, letting the desert's shifting sands swallow him whole. When Skriath awoke, it felt like the desert still clung to him. Each breath was a blade scraping his throat. Through the blur, a masked figure loomed at his side, silent, weaving a sigil with gnarled hands. The mark burned into his chest, heat flooding his body, and for the first time in days, blood surged back into his veins. By nightfall, Skriath was fully awake. He drained a flask of water in one breath, but as it hit his stomach, the mark on his chest seared with fire. The stranger motioned for him to calm himself, guiding him to feel the strange power flowing within. "Sense it. Control it. If you fail, your life will vanish like sand through your fingers." With no other choice, Skriath followed the bent old figure into the arts of sorcery. In that wasteland of wind and sand, his wounds healed, and he learned to bend the desert's very flow—the same force that once sought to devour him. The stranger never gave his name. He only left Skriath with one parting command: "Live... and help those trapped in the sands as you were." Armed with newfound power, Skriath wandered the Land of the Exiles. He found the abandoned and the broken: starving refugees, enslaved heirs, and fugitives scarred by blood feuds. He saved them, taught them how to endure the desert, and slowly gathered around him a people who carried both rage and hope. It was during one such rescue that he met the current leader of the Quicksand Claws—Anoki. Anoki was the only son of the former commander of the Blood Guard, a man he had long admired for his loyalty and courage. But after the assassination attempt, Makneok heeded the whispers of the Falkin elder and threw Anoki's father into prison. There, the loyal commander's spirit withered in confinement, until he died. Meanwhile, his people were branded as rebels, reduced to slavery under the Empire, forced to wear chains. Unable to endure the humiliation, Anoki fled into the Land of the Exiles with his followers and founded a new group: the Quicksand Claws. Unlike before, this band no longer burned and plundered. They fought a guerrilla war against the Empire, protecting the innocent and becoming a thorn the rulers could not remove. At first, Anoki was deeply suspicious of Skriath—the face of the Falkin clan brought back memories of betrayal and blood debts. But after fighting side by side in life-or-death battles, he began to see the intelligence and resilience hidden by the young man's sharp edge. Under Skriath's command, the Quicksand Claws repeatedly struck against overwhelming odds, saving countless innocents. Yet Anoki could never fully trust him—until that sudden ambush. That day, the Quicksand Claws were returning to their stronghold when Empire forces surrounded them. On a distant dune, an elite unit of the Falkin clan came into view. In that instant, Anoki drew his weapon, eyes flashing toward Skriath. Even after all they had survived together, he couldn't suppress the chord of his ancestor's grievance thrumming in his chest. But Skriath didn't hesitate even a moment. He read the enemy's formation and blind spots in an instant, directing scouts to hold their front and leading a small squad to strike from the flank. One by one, several Falkin warriors were swallowed by the sand taps Skriath commanded. The battle lasted until nightfall. After the Empire troops withdrew, Anoki found Skriath alone, tending to his wounds. He stood silently for a long moment before speaking: "You fought your own kin, and you didn't blink." Skriath lifted his gaze, dust and blood streaked across his face, calm and resolute. "My clan never accepted me. They abandoned me and countless innocents to the desert, left us to be swallowed by the sands. Yet I do not hate them." He raised a hand, pointing to the faintly burning sigil on his chest. "I should have died there in the desert, but it was this power that saved me. Even so, I chose not to wield it for revenge. I care more about keeping alive those who, like me, are struggling, desperate, trapped in the shifting sands." In that moment, Anoki understood. Skriath, like him, carried the weight of the past but chose to move forward. Not long after, Anoki passed the leadership of the Quicksand Claws to Skriath, convinced that he was the one to ignite hope and lead their rebellion against the Empire. And in Skriath, he had found a leader worth following for life. "No matter the circumstances, they always make the same choice," Zolrath said with interest, watching it all unfold. Orthros remained silent. The fate of mortals was never his sport, and he had no desire to waste more words on Zolrath. Yet neither of them realized that their gaze was like stones thrown into a lake, silently sending ripples through this timeline. They watched Skriath and Anoki unite, watched the old order collapse, watched sparks of hope flicker across the desert—but elsewhere, something was also "watching" them. A more ancient, more hidden power was awakening. Slowly, it stretched its embrace, preparing to draw every onlooker into an endless game of chess.