Archmage Yabanius is a Splinterlands character. <a target="_blank" rel="ugc" href="https://splinterlands.com/">Splinterlands</a> is an NFT Trading Card Game based in the world of Praetoria.<img src="https://image.civitai.com/xG1nkqKTMzGDvpLrqFT7WA/4e4891b3-1820-4a06-98b3-cee32c090af7/width=525/4e4891b3-1820-4a06-98b3-cee32c090af7.jpeg" />Lore:Yabanius the Architect was a member of the Wizards' Council, a secretive order of mages who guarded the Splinterlands from ancient evils and catastrophic magicks. Portia Nyr was one of them, a brilliant and ambitious sorceress who spoke of progress, of opening the world to new possibilities. When she convinced the council to lower the Wizards’ Veil around Praetoria, she promised an age of prosperity. Instead, it brought an age of chaos. Silus of the Rift and his legions poured through rifts into the Splinters. Yabanius saw the truth. This had been Portia’s plan all along. Her ambitions were darker than he could have imagined. He and the other archmages sought a means to seal the rifts. They scoured libraries, pored over ancient tomes, cast desperate spells, and wove complex wards and seals. But in the midst of their efforts, Portia betrayed them again. She killed those she could. Banished the others to faraway realms. Yabanius escaped, but barely. The council broken, his allies scattered, he became a hunted man. The legions of Chaos were everywhere. He stayed on the move, hiding in forests, ruins, caves—anywhere far from civilization. Yet one truth remained: as long as Yabanius lived, Portia had not won. He hunted for answers beneath a sky that burned violet, followed rivers that flowed backward, chased shadows that fled before him as if alive. His search led him beneath the Agniavas, into the Deep. He traveled through tunnels and caverns, and the farther he descended, the more frayed the ley lines beneath the Splinterlands became. In the nethermost reaches of the Deep, they’d torn apart completely. Daedoks, obscene nightmares of the lower planes, swarmed through them. Ravenous and relentless, they devoured everything in their path. Yabanius walked among them like a ghost, his spells cloaking him in silence and shadow. But even his magic couldn’t silence the chittering in the darkness or the screams and wet rending of flesh when the daedoks found their prey. He pressed on, deeper still, until he found himself in a cavern far beneath Mount Praetorous, one older than the mountains above. A fortress of ancient magic, sealed by runes and forgotten even to myth. A place meant to guard the world, to keep the rifts shut. But the runes were failing. A massive rift had opened in the far wall, a swirling wound in reality where one of the dark god Uul’s many eyes stared out with malevolent hunger. And before the rift stood a lone, robed figure with arms outstretched, chanting. As Yabanius approached, he felt a shock of recognition. Aggroedius Lightbringer. Another of the Wizards' Council, another survivor of Portia's treachery. Aggroedius had followed the same signs, tracked the same chaos, and fought his way through the Deep just as Yabanius had. Now, he stood alone, his strength failing. Yabanius saw the tremor in his arms, the sweat on his brow, the despair in his eyes. Without a word, Yabanius stepped forward, raised his hands, and poured his power into the wards. Light flared, darkness recoiled, and side by side, they fought. They wove spells and wards, but the rift would not close. They could only hold it. Days turned to weeks. Weeks to years. Their sanctuary became a prison. One always stood guard while the other rested, yet rest never brought peace. Silence filled the cavern like a weight. Words became rare. But Yabanius refused to surrender. He studied the rift, deciphered its magic, tested theories, failed, and tried again. He imagined the legions of Chaos above, ravaging the Splinterlands. He imagined Portia, twisting the Wizards’ Council from protectors to tyrants. But he could do nothing to stop it. Five years passed. Five years of holding the darkness at bay. Five years of cave moss, slugs, and mushrooms. And finally, a solution—a way to reshape the ancient wards, to seal the rift without their constant focus. For a week, Yabanius inscribed new sigils, wove enchantments, and cast binding spells. But as he completed the final rune and it flared with brilliant light, a thick, viscous glob erupted from the rift. It struck Aggroedius. He staggered back into the rune as it flared even brighter. When the glow faded, he was gone. Dead? Banished? Trapped? Yabanius didn’t know. But the seal held. The rift twisted and pulsed, but it no longer expanded. The dark god glared from within. Yabanius stood alone and stared back. He waited a week. Watched the rift. Reinforced the seal with more runes, wards, and spells. Tested them. Tested them again. They would hold. When he left the cavern and began the long journey to the surface, he was no longer the bright-eyed archmage of old. His face was pale, his body weary, but his resolve was unbroken. Portia Nyr has no idea what’s coming for her.

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