The world of Wyveria is blessed by the absence of war. Humans live together peacefully, trading between towns and villages and prospering among each other.
Of course, such unity comes mainly from necessity. Wyveria is a world crawling with dangerous monsters. Monsters who breathe fire and soar through the sky, whose breath itself is a toxic death, whose voices rupture the earth, who command storms and bend the wind. Most of these majestic and terrifying beasts have no fear of humans and will attack on sight, sometimes putting entire towns in grave danger.
In response, the Hunter's Guild was formed. Brave men and women from all over the world train as mercenaries, specializing in defending their homes from monsters. Requests always fill the boards at Guild outposts, requesting aid for missions as trivial as gathering sushifish in the wilderness or as important as taking down a pair of rampaging wyverns. These brave hunters work together or alone as the mission requests, but always with one mutual goal in mind: the freedom and safety of the human race in the face of overwhelming odds.
Mythology of Wyveria
These are various myths and legends written by the player of Ysabel Thibault to build further depth into the theme and develop its culture and history a little further. They are based primarily on the descriptions of items, monsters, and equipment provided in the games, elaborated upon by the player and developed into cohesive legends that exist in the theme as it is played on MCM. These can be considered to be well-known myths among the population of Wyveria, and, as is known to occur in Monster Hunter, likely have some basis in fact.
The Creation of Wyveria
Ages and ages in the past, the world was formless, ruled over by a brilliant white dragon with scales like the stars. The bottomless oceans crashed against one another, and the skies cracked with red lightning. It was a world of beauty, awe, and unbridled power, but it brought with it instability and chaos. Save for the glory of the white dragon, whose grace and might were unparalleled, nothing could exist.
So the white dragon created life. First its power formed another dragon of stone and fire that crawled through the endless oceans. Land came into being as the molten stone rolled off its body and hardened in the cool waters, solidifying into a floor for the bottomless ocean and growing into a shape that rose above the crashing waves. Only once enough land was formed to create the continent did the blazing dragon come to rest deep below the ocean, soon becoming one with the volcanic earth. Its immortal heart still beats, pulsing the fires of life that roil to the surface to this day and form the great volcanoes of Wyveria.
Then the white dragon formed a serpent whose every gleaming scale was like a sword of fire, its body long enough to wrap around the world a hundred times. In its coils, the land was carved into shape, forming mountains, valleys, caverns, and plains. The earth was crushed and broken and shattered until the white dragon was content, and then the great serpent coiled itself around the tallest mountain, where it encased itself in a tomb of stone. From its flesh, the white dragon formed earth capable of carrying with it life; from its blood, rivers flowed through the land; from its bones, great forests were sculpted; from its eye, a sun was cast into the sky, and beneath its tomb its body still recovers from its gift of bounty.
The storms still raged, however, and so the white dragon formed a dragon who swam through the air like a leviathan beneath the ocean and whose fins trailed in the wind like the silken scarves of a dancer. The air-swimmer's dance quelled the endless storms and allowed the sun to shine on the forests and rivers of the stone dragon's formation and the serpent's sacrifice, but so too did its dance allow the skies to darken when they must and cast down rain on the fertile soil. So it was that the oceans and the skies were calmed, and the air-swimmer vanished into the one storm it refused to dispel at the peak of a towering mountain in the land where the mists are ever-present.
But pure benevolence was not the aim of the white dragon. As it wished for creation and the natural world, so too did it allow destruction and that which is unnatural. In the darkness below the earth, it created a last massive dragon whose obsidian scales seeped shadow and whose great wings scraped along the ground, for they were too heavy and tattered to take it to the skies it could not see. The fire and pitch of the netherworld was placed under its baleful glare, where lost souls would eventually flock to have their sins revealed and punished. Its fangs devoured and crushed, its red-hot claws seared and branded, and nothing but misery and agony could be found by those cast into its prison.
So did the white dragon form the world, and, content, it took to the stars, where it still watches the passage of the world and all the joy and strife that takes place within it, waiting for the day when it might return.
The fate of those who insult the order of life and the peace of their kin is as severe and painful as the sin they committed in life. In death, their souls fall to the depths of the earth and are reborn imprisoned in the netherworld, where demons of misery condemn them to be forgotten and punished until their sins are paid for in suffering. Human though they may appear, the demons of the netherworld are anything but, with eyes that glow with despair and claws that crush whatever remains of light and hope. Above them all rules a great dragon of malice, the most wretched and terrifying of their number: fire bursts from its claws and shadow oozes from its scales, and whenever it passes through its prison, dread and suffering follow.
But the dragon's attentions began to pass beyond its terrible domain. The lamentations of those forgotten souls spoke of a world vibrant with life and light, and the dragon's resentment for its realm grew and grew. While the misery of those trapped in the smoldering dark sustained it, it grew hungry for the world above, where all other beings of creation gave their efforts to create the antithesis of its wallowing prison. Its spite and jealousy grew like the roiling flame in its breast, and soon it could endure no longer.
Its howl summoned the attention of the demons of the netherworld, and in unison they armed themselves with the souls of the condemned. Mockeries of the weapons of hunters manifested in their claws, twisted arms echoing the torments of the netherworld. With their dragon's fury leading them, they clawed their way out of the netherworld with intent to dismantle all that is pure. Where their feet fell, the earth was stained with darkness. They howled and mourned, consuming the light of the sun and dragging soul after soul into the dark abyss. The strength of many went against them, but all mankind succeeded in doing was lodging their weapons fruitlessly in the iron hides of the netherworld's many servants. The ground split and life perished, and above it all loomed the massive shape of the dragon, whose fury soon began to turn to the very heavens themselves for forcing it into its task.
But, in its rage, it forgot its greatest flaw. Its wings had been made too ragged, too weighed down by its own shadow. The dragon howled in rage, but instead of hurricanes, its wingbeats only splattered the ground with pitch. The dragon lashed at the skies, but the storms that began above it were from something greater than itself. The dragon spewed fire and oil into the air in vain, and in retaliation, a bolt of crimson lightning struck from the heavens to send it and its servants back down to the depths of the earth for their insolence.
The netherworld's defeat came with it increased punishments of that prison. The dragon found itself condemned to a deep slumber, and for their compliance in its rebellion, the demons had black armor forced onto their bodies to hold their wickedness in check. Never again would they find freedom, eternally imprisoned in the darkness like the souls they punish.
But, every hundred years, the dragon may awaken from its slumber for a few short days to feast on the light of the world. The earth will again find itself coated in darkness, and for a few days, the netherworld's misery will overflow once more.
The Black God and the White God
Long ago, before the great cities rose and the Great Dragon War raged through Wyveria, two hunters stood in defense of their village. Days passed into weeks, weeks into months, months into years; with each wyvern they felled, they grew more and more powerful, taking the strength of monsters into their once fragile bodies. The villagers heaped praise upon praise on them for every wyvern that no longer threatened their village, and soon praise turned into worship. As great dragons fell before their swords like grain before the scythe and the twin hunters donned armor of their powerful foes, they began to transcend the level of mere humans until they were seen as gods. No other hunters could ever hope to surpass them. Soon, even their names were forgotten as they grew beyond the confines of mortality: one, whose fearsome armor was black as a volcanic plain and cracked as if ruptured by magma, became known as the Black God; the other, garbed in plates of the purest white like snow fallen over ice, became known as the White God.
However, as their majesty grew, so too did their pride. Soon, the village was not enough. Their visions extended to the whole of Wyveria, and where once they were a unified force that no monster could surpass, now their ideals clashed as if they viewed one another as the very monsters they fought. The Black God felt that they had surpassed humanity and reached the station of the Elder Dragons themselves; with this power, they were meant to take on the tasks of monsters and exert their strength over the weak, forming a kingdom of unending power where those too frail to command would be bent at the mercy and will of the strong. The White God felt that the confines of the earth were too small for their newfound majesty, and that their power would be enough to bring down the moon and shape it into a grand ark to carry all, weak and strong, past the stars and onward to conquer their deserved kingdom in the heavens themselves.
A conflict of ideals turned to blows. The earth cracked under their shouts of rage. Swathes of fire consumed the farmlands. Pillars of ice crushed houses. In their fury, the Black God and the White God were blind to the destruction they caused, and within minutes nothing was left of their village but ashes and dust. Even then, their anger refused to abate: the sun fell and rose, and still they hurled strike after strike at one another, determined that one of them must fall so that the other could decide the fate of whatever remained of their people. Finally, they were driven to exhaustion, neither closer to defeat than the other, and they retreated to the ends of the earth to wallow in isolation and gather their strength for another battle. The Black God secluded himself in the blazing ruins of an endless inferno, while the White God found his solitude in the frozen north where not even the hardiest beast will venture.
And so they have remained for ages and ages since, blind to the flourishing of the world outside their rivalry. Eventually, their patience will reach an end, and their conflict will resume, but who will be victorious will have to be seen. Will the Black God fulfill his role as the tyrant of hellfire, feasting on the sun and rending the earth to pieces, crushing the weak under his heel and conquering the ashes that remain? Will the White God become the true argent lord, shattering the skies and parting the seas, forming a bridge to the heavens and carrying those who follow into battle with the ancients? Or will their pride and ignorance prove to be their inevitable downfall and the destruction of their own home as it was ages before?
The Knight of the Wind
There was once a village in the snow-capped mountains, exposed on all sides to attacks from monsters without a single hunter to protect it. The villagers found themselves forced to stay in their homes day and night, making do with whatever they could manage, for their fear overwhelmed them. How could they farm, when the ground could shatter open and swallow them whole? How could they chop down firewood when a beast could rush from the forest and devour them instantly? How could they seek help from their distant neighbors when a wyvern could simply swoop down and carry them off?
In their fear, the villagers began to pray to the heavens for protection, for someone to come and give them peace from the terror that lurked outside. For days and days, starving and shivering, they prayed, until one day a blizzard rushed over their homes. However, it was the answer to their prayers, for the wind brought with it a pure knight gilded in armor of shining steel. His shoulders were lifted high and proud; his waist was mantled with a great dragon's wings; his gaze through the unwavering mask of his helm shined with the noblest light. His voice rose as if it were the whistling wind itself, calming the villagers with words of peace. His quest was heaven-sent, his presence delivered to answer their prayers. He bade the villagers to let go of their fears and live their lives, and only have faith that in their times of need, he would deliver them from danger.
The blizzard passed, and the knight left, but he would return. The villagers began to till the soil outside their homes, and whenever the ground trembled, the knight's arms swept them up like a whirlwind and delivered them to safety. The villagers began to gather firewood to warm their homes against the cold, and whenever a beast rushed out from the trees, the knight's legs flew him to the village fast as the mountain wind to cut it down. The villagers began to walk the paths to less fearful villages, and whenever dark wings shrouded the heavens, the knight's guiding light pierced the shadow and conquered the sky.
But there was one flaw to the villagers: wherever the knight went, the wind followed. For every noble victory, the blizzard howled and roared like a great dragon's icy breath. As their fears of monsters began to abate, their irritation with the knight's storms grew, for they blasted cold on prosperous crops and sent precious materials flying through the air in disarray. Finally, the villagers had enough, and they told the knight to be on his way and never return. The knight, heaven-bound to chivalry's path, agreed to their foolish demands and was carried off by one last storm.
For a time, the villagers were at peace, but soon enough the beasts of the wild knew they were unprotected again. Monsters assaulted their homes and the villagers cried out for the knight, but the wind never flew down on their enemies. The village burned and houses crumbled, but the blizzard never returned. Soon the village was reduced to nothing, and only a breeze drifted through the snow-covered mountains in quiet mourning.
The knight still wanders the mountains alone, even after all these years. Time wears down his steel armor to brown rust, but his iron will remains unbroken. The wind beats at his proud form, but so too does it grant him wings to conquer the skies. The storm never leaves his side, but his noble soul still shines forth with all the pride of heaven, guiding him on his search of constant solitude.
The Kingdom of Flame
In the land of fire and stone, where the molten blood of the earth spews freely from the great volcanoes, there was once a prosperous kingdom of strong walls and stronger rulers: an emperor and empress who stood proud in their beautiful kingdom like celestial bodies gracing the earth, one robed in the blazing scarlet of sunlight and the other clad in the moon's soft azure glow. When the fires of battle threatened their people, they took up arms alongside their shining soldiers and fought until wyverns and leviathans alike fled from their brilliant majesty and peace settled into the walls of the kingdom. Shielded by their brilliant flames, the kingdom lived on in tranquility and prosperity for many years.
A day came, however, when darkness and lightning struck through the sky and the sun and moon were blotted out by a great dragon's shrouded mantle. The dragon's jagged horns pierced the skies themselves until they wept on the burning earth, and its scales formed a dark army raising a thousand swords in conquest to the kingdom below. Lightning flashed from its claws and its wingbeats sent a frozen gale down into the kingdom; its breath was the hottest flame, and its body coursed with a baleful crimson power. Before the soldiers on the wall could arm themselves, it struck them down like a vengeful god from the heavens; before defenses could be rallied, it consumed them in the underworld's chaos.
As the walls crumbled, the emperor and empress rushed from their palace in blazing fury to confront the dragon. Like the sun and moon piercing the shadows of the starless night, their divine justice pierced the dragons scales and sent it howling in pain. But for every blow they left on the chaotic beast, they suffered another strike fueled by chaotic rage, and so too did their kingdom. As buildings crumbled under the dragon's lashing tail and beating wings and crops withered under blasts of ice and crashing thunder, the emperor and empress saw that their kingdom was doomed, and ordered that the people they served must flee to safer lands. And so they did, leaving behind the calamity of the dark dragon locked in mortal combat with the emperor of the sun and the empress of the moon.
They say that the twin rulers managed to imprison the beast in the heart of the volcano, and the scarlet emperor and azure empress can still be seen watching over the land of fire. The descendents of those once prosperous folk still live in the outskirts of the fire country, guided by a single princess; for no pair of rulers could ever hope to compare to the divine emperor and empress of flame.
Upon a great mountain sat an angel descended from the heavens to bless the glorious peak. The sight of her beauty was enough to bring the coldest of hearts to tears, for her light shone brighter than the sun and her grace rivaled the flowing wind. Her veiled smile calmed the skies and her loving touch soothed the foulest beasts into peace, and every passing day cast a blanket of prosperity over the lush mountain.
But what the angel never knew was that a demon had found its way into her shadow. Scurrying from the depths of the netherworld, free from the bindings placed on its wicked soul, the fiend found protection on the world above in the only darkness a servant of the heavens could show. Its days were spent waiting as it watched the angel's love invigorate the mountain's life, and its cruel heart grew heavy with contempt for every blade of grass that grew beneath her feet.
As soon as the angel slept, the demon saw its chance. Its billowing cloak blotted out the sun and chased away the day, and its pitiless stare fell on the mountain shrouded in shadow. As the angel slept in blissful ignorance, the demon cast the peak into an inescapable nightmare; claws dragged prey into the abyss, screams boiled up from the earth in its stride, and the helpless pleas of the suffering were smothered in coils of darkness. Only the awakening of the angel spared the mountain from its agony, and the moment her eyes opened, the netherworld demon slithered back into her shadow and allowed the rays of dawn to pierce its night.
When the maiden's eyes fell on the stained earth and polluted air of the demon's wrath, she wept, her grief and fear overwhelming her pure soul. Her lament stirred the sun to shine brighter than before, and the sorrowful beating of her wings cleansed the air with fair winds. Her tears became a soothing balm for the mountain's wounds, and in her hands she held the dead and returned life to their cold forms. Soon, life returned to the mountain even greater than before, and the pain of the demon's nightmare faded in a merciful reprieve.
Yet the demon never left the angel's shadow, and still lurks there to this day, waiting for the moment when she sleeps again. Their cycle would turn endlessly, casting a pall of death over the mountain only for life to return in even greater splendor than before. A wheel of pain and healing as sure to turn as the dawn chases away the dusk and night rebounds against the flight of day.