Over a thousand years have passed since the horrendous clash between the dwarves and the humans that was later to be known as the “bone wars”. Living separately for eons, the mountain dwelling dwarves and the plains dwelling humans formed complex civilizations independent of one another… with traditions so different that within a century after their eventual meeting, axe and spear clashed in a battle of genocidal proportions. Though both sides lost many numbers, it was the sheer number of the humans that eventually brought victory, and the dwarves that did not flee back to the mountains were captured and enslaved, becoming an integral part of human civilization as forced craftsman and servants.
Things had been peaceful for many years, until marauding nomads from the far north of the spines began to attack the agrarian civilizations of central-sacnoth. Villages, towns, entire regions split apart, carving out divisions amongst themselves for protection, creating countries with varying governments… a hundred kings for one continent.
There was one king who came forth… the first Isadore, rising from the boundries of Sacnoth under a crimson banner with a golden fist. Through crafty strategy the might of his armies quickly overcame the weaker surrounding countries, and along with his new rule, with great wisdom he brought prosperity to all he claimed, and the masses came to love him. It was only a matter of time before the rest surrendered to the man as High King, and there were few who came to question his ways. Those that did were quickly silenced…
Times had been quiet for nearly fifty years. After the first Isadore, the second took reign. Though he was of his father’s blood, he did not have his father’s wisdom, and seemed to care little for the agrarian communities in the mid-plains, and even less for the desert dwellers to the south, favoring instead the bustling cities and coastal villages of Sacnoth that ran across a boundry known as the path of gold.
Through neglect and taxation, the rich began to grow richer. The poor, poorer. Here and there, rebels arose, wearing crimson sashes about their waists in homage to their beloved Isadore, while questioning the ways of the second.
Still the flag of the golden fist flew, crimson no longer but upon a field of burning red. No longer did the fist stand for strength and pride, but for domination and blood.
Those loyal to the king of kings lived in relative comfort, occupying the northern towns around the capitol city of Tharagavverug. All young men from all reaches of the lands were expected to serve within the second’s army for a period of two years, and they were provided for well. There were those who rejected this conscription, however, and they fled to the southern lands, dwelling where the king’s soldiers rarely had the provisions to reach. These rebels were hated amongst those who were too afraid to speak or think differently, and often the northerners of Sacnoth clashed with the southerners, and each despised one another.
What neither side realized was that in the lands to the east, between the spine of the world, and the great forest, in the lands that came to be known as the great barrier dwelled the remnants a thousand years before, a civilization carved from the terrible chaos of a cursed spell.
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