Server lore

The continent

It is said that the continent was once united under a single crown.

Far in the south, where the wind drives the dunes of Valesos across the plains, lie the ancient cities. Their walls still rise from the sand, vast and pale, and their golden roofs are said to have shone so brightly even in the midday sun that travellers believed the sun itself was burning in them. No one knows any more who had them built. Some claim they were the works of forgotten kings, others ascribe them to a people long buried in the sand.

But the cities still live.

Merchants from all over the world pass through their harbours. Junks with purple sails glide across the strait, laden with silk, spices, gemstones and foreign wares. From the coasts of Valesos to the distant islands, the songs of their sailors are known. Gold changes hands, and so do rumours, and in the taverns of the trading ports one hears stories of lands no traveller has ever seen.

The Wulpish kingdoms

In the centre of the continent begins the land of the Wulpish kingdoms.

Once an empire stretched from the southern plains to the icy fjords of the north. Wulfgar the Terrible, as the chronicles call him, is said to have ruled his subjects with an iron hand. Under his banner kingdoms fell, cities opened their gates and whole peoples swore him loyalty.

But no realm is built for eternity.

Wulfgar’s empire shattered after his death. His successors fought over the crown, his governors declared themselves kings and his old roads fell into disrepair. What had once been a single realm became a patchwork of principalities, castles and quarrelling kingdoms, what we know today as Mesyrna.

The walls of the former capital still stand there. Its towers are cracked, its halls empty, and grass grows over the old imperial roads. Kings sit on thrones that once belonged to governors and wage wars over borders that appear on no old map.

And while they fight each other, the Nordmar come.

The Nordmar

High in the north, beyond the wooded valleys and the black mountains, where the fjords cut deep into the land, live the tribes of the north. They are rough and proud. They know neither the golden cities of Valesos nor the courtly customs of Mesyrna. Their houses of stone and wood stand between snow and rock, and their ships lie in the cold waters of the fjords.

For generations they have looked down on the lands of the south.

Now they are coming for their riches.

When the horns of the Nordmar sound over the passes, the people of Mesyrna know what follows. Villages burn. Border castles fall. Merchants vanish on the old roads. And while the kings of Mesyrna argue over who is entitled to the crown, the tribes of the north push ever further south.

Myralon

Far out at sea lies Myralon, an island that people have avoided for centuries. A mighty volcano rises on it, but its crater has long since cooled. Only the jagged slopes still remind one that fire once broke from the earth here.

More than a thousand years ago King Mykolos is said to have claimed this island for himself and named it Myralon. There he had a mighty temple built. Mykolos was described as powerful and immeasurably rich, but his greatest wish was to become his downfall.

According to legend, the king one day performed a secret ritual with which he wanted to escape his approaching death. No one knows what really happened that night. It is certain only that the volcano awoke. Fire, ash and molten rock poured over the island. The temple was buried under stone, and with it Mykolos vanished from history.

The penal colony

Centuries later, Emperor Wulfgar the Terrible built a penal colony on the ruins. His geologists suspected rich ore deposits deep underground. Wulfgar’s war to subjugate the continent devoured vast amounts of raw materials. Prisoners from all parts of the continent were to extract the treasures from the rock.

But Wulfgar had underestimated people.

After a few years the convicts rose against their overseers. They seized the stronghold, drove out the soldiers and made Myralon their home. The former prisoners became outlaws and eventually pirates. For generations their brood is said to have lived in the ruins of the old fortress.

So Myralon fell into oblivion. The volcano was considered unpredictable, the island cursed, and stories of pirates and hidden treasure kept even daring adventurers away.

To this very day

For now a merchant has decided to take the risk. On his own initiative he sends the first ships to Myralon and begins to build a new settlement. He has it proclaimed in all lands that every freeman, craftsman, landless knight or exile is welcome. He promises land, wealth and a new future.

Where all of this will lead, we are yet to see.