“The Greens of Elderglyph”

In the lands of Vaelorin, where the skies are painted with twin suns and the winds carry whispers of spellcraft, the Forgotten Wizard Cult reigns—not in shadows, but in brilliance. Once thought to have vanished into dust and myth, the cult instead retreated beyond the mortal veil, building a vast dominion of knowledge, magic, and ritual. Their empire thrives across the highlands, their influence subtle yet absolute.

But even masters of arcane law need respite. Thus, from ley-charged meadows and transmuted bedrock, they crafted a place not of war or summoning, but of challenge and reflection.

A golf course. A true test of strength, mental toughness and your true nature

Its name: Elderglyph.

Orion’s Burden

Orion was no common blade. Born of ash and thunder, he served as Contaminator of the Dawn, a warrior forged in runic fire, bound to the Cult not by oath—but by purpose. His strength was legend. His silence, feared. But when his blade shattered in the War of the Crystal Dunes, the wizards offered not exile… but a test.

“Lay down your wrath,” said the High Arcanist.

“Go to Elderglyph. Complete the Course. Only then may your soul be reforged.”

Orion did not argue. He took his broken dragon pike, now dulled to a ceremonial iron rod, and walked into the mists.

The First Tee of Transmutation

Elderglyph shimmered with dimensional layers. The fairways changed depending on the golfer’s intent. What was a par-4 for a bard became a labyrinthine par-9 for Orion, whose heart was heavy with fury.

The first tee glowed with the sigil of transmutation. His club bent in his hands, adjusting to his suppressed rage. With a deep breath, Orion swung.

The ball exploded into flame, soared through a rip in space, and landed gently on the green—through a portal made of laughter.

Orion did not smile. But he continued.

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The Enchanted Bunkers

Here, the sand wasn’t sand. It was powdered memory.

Orion landed in the left trap on purpose.

As he stepped in, visions returned: battles fought, friends lost, that moment his sword clove through both a demon’s heart and his own will to kill. The bunker tried to swallow him whole.

He raised the club like a war-banner, and with one flawless swing, launched the ball—and a fragment of his guilt—out of the trap and into the light.

A breeze whispered:

“You are not your war.”

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The Hole of Mirrors

This par-3 was a reflection loop—every swing mirrored by a version of himself: Orion the Tyrant, Orion the Coward, Orion the Dead.

Each ball they hit screamed through the skies. Each version failed. Only the real Orion, breathing slowly, eyes clear, struck his ball gently into the cup.

One mirror cracked.

The others bowed.

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The Ritual Green

Hole Nine rested atop a floating isle anchored by spell-spires. The green was a rune circle, shifting with glyphs in real time. Each missed putt would rewrite history. Each successful one aligned destiny.

Orion knelt, touched the grass, and whispered:

“I am not finished… but I am whole.”

The ball rolled. The glyphs pulsed. Light bloomed.

He did not see the ball drop. He only felt warmth.

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The Greenskeeper of Glyph moor

Today, Elderglyph stands as the Cult’s most sacred training ground—not for spellcasters, but for those who have faced too much. Orion remains, now dressed in ceremonial robes marked with turf and starfire, guiding warriors, exiles, and champions through the Course.

He does not speak often.

But when he does, it is only to say:

“Watch your grip. And your heart.”

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Excerpt from the Tome of Leisure and Discipline – Forgotten Wizard Cult Archives

“True power is not taken from the gods.

It is earned—swing by swing.”

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