The Chronicle of Naissus – an introduction to the world
In the year of our Lord, five centuries past, the prophet Orion, servant of the Almighty, broke the chains of our people and cast down the yoke of the Elven oppressors. By the grace of God, our twelve tribes was granted a covenant: the lands south of the sacred river, a realm of promise and of trial, known in the Elven tongue as Naissus… the land of the nymphs. Thus did Orion, the Prophet and first King, reign over the Twelve Tribes in Naissus, granting each its portion of land and raising their chieftains to the noble rank of Duke. From his holy seat at Orion’s Bastion he ruled in strength and wisdom, until at last the hand of mortality claimed him. No heir did he leave, and with his passing the world was shrouded in sorrow. Verily, the Age of Disruption began, and the unity of the faithful was broken like a vessel cast upon the stones.
Much has changed since the Peace of the River. The Twelve Tribes, once united under the covenant of Orion, no longer stand as one. Brothers who once marched together in faith and freedom now quarrel as rivals, their hearts divided by pride, ambition, and the passing of generations. The bond that was sealed in blood upon the battlefield has grown frail, and the unity of old lies shattered, like a chalice broken upon the stones.
To the south of the Summer Mountains in Naissus now lies the kingdom of Angaria, rich and proud, ruled by Queen Isabella Von Draconia. Yet beware, for Angaria has turned its back upon the true Church. There, no archbishop holds the staff of God… instead, their queen herself dares to sit as head of a new, heretical church, where crown and altar are one. May Orion have mercy upon their souls, lest such pride call down His wrath.
Beyond the Summer Mountains, in the northern half of Naissus, lie the stern Duchy’s, where faith and sword bind men against hunger, strife, and the shadow of heresy.
Know also that the kingdom of Angaria was wrought from betrayal. Once, it was but the Duchy of Angar, yet through guile and blood it conquered both its neighbors; Baleria and Kaloria, raising itself above its peers. Thus was the false crown of Angaria forged. North of the Sommar Mountains remain but nine true Duchy’s, steadfast in their loyalty to the true and pious Church of Orion, while Angaria has fallen into heresy. Now sits Queen Isabella Von Draconia, third monarch of that traitor realm, who dares to place herself above altar and scripture alike.
For it must be remembered that only the Prophet Orion, first King of Naissus, and the leader of the twelve chieftains who followed him from bondage into freedom, were granted by God the divine right to bear the crown. Yet when Orion departed this life without heir, no single man was raised above his brethren. Instead, the twelve Duke’s were granted autonomy, each to govern the land bestowed upon him by Orion’s own hand, as his most trusted companions. Thus did the worldly crown pass into many hands, while the spiritual crown endured in one: the Holy Church. To it was entrusted the eternal guardianship of Orion’s covenant, and the Archbishop was set as its rightful shepherd and leader. Orions Holdfast became the home of the church, Orions holy throne now the seat of the archbishop.
Thus is the fate of our land: a subcontinent divided along its very heart. To the north endure the true Duchy’s, guardians of Orion’s covenant, bound in faith and duty to the holy Church. To the south festers the false kingdom of Angaria, a realm of heresy, decadence, and wanton immorality, wherein the crown and the altar are corrupted into one. And over this fallen dominion rules Isabella Von Draconia… a “queen” in flesh, yet to us a demon in spirit… whose pride defies both God and history.
Yet let it not be thought that the peril of Naissus springs only from within, nor solely from the immortal Elves beyond the northern river. For beyond the Emerald Lake, in the distant east, rise kingdoms strange and perilous, whose ways are veiled from us as night veils the stars. Thus is the Promised Land of the Twelve Tribes beset on all sides: by heresy and treachery within, by ancient foes without, and by the unknowable designs of those who dwell beyond the waters.
To the east dwell the Nahzirites, a people of stone and sand, who hide within walled cities and bow before strange idols not born of God. They clothe themselves in wisdom, yet their wisdom is but folly, for they know not the covenant of Orion nor the true light of the Almighty. Though rich in trade and cunning in craft, they remain barbarians of the soul, forever outside the promise given unto man.
Further still ride the Kharovites, children of the endless steppe, who live by horse and bow and know naught of scripture nor holy law. They are a people of fire and blood, swift to raid and swifter still to vanish into the grass-sea whence they came. Their strength is brutish, their honor fleeting, and though they boast of freedom, it is not the freedom of God’s chosen, but the wild anarchy of beasts. Verily, they too stand beyond the covenant, unworthy of crown or blessing.
And so it is written in the Holy Scripture: “the peace of Naissus is but a fleeting gift, and each generation must guard it anew, lest the darkness of ages past return once more.”
Five centuries have now passed since the Peace of the River was sworn, and I, a humble servant of the Church, perceive that it is but a matter of time before the sword is drawn anew for the fate of Naissus. The covenant is tested, the heresies multiply, and the shadows lengthen over the land of the Twelve Tribes. Yet I pray without ceasing, and I trust in the Almighty, that the light of Orion shall rise once more, and that His truth shall triumph over darkness as in days of old.
— Written in the year of our Lord, 500 years after the Peace of the River.
By Brother Władysław, Scribe of the Holy Chronicle
Of the Peoples of Naissus, and Those Beyond the Covenant
The subcontinent of Naissus is a land of many peoples, shaped by covenant, conquest, and enduring division. It is the promised home of the Twelve Tribes of Man, who though bound by shared origin, are divided into nine distinct cultures, each tempered by its land, its customs, and the weight of history. Together they form the mortal heart of Naissus, yet their unity has long since faded into memory.
Beyond Naissus northern reaches looms the Elven Imperium, ancient and unyielding, the former masters of mankind and the architects of our bondage. To the northeast ride the Kharovites, fierce horse-born clans of the open steppe, owing allegiance to no crown nor scripture. In the southeast lies the desert dominion of the Nahzirites, a realm of sand and stone, rich in secrets and foreign belief. Thus is Naissus surrounded by powers old and new, and thus do its peoples endure—caught between the memory of chains and the fear of what yet stirs beyond its borders.
— Written in the year of our Lord, 500 years after the Peace of the River.
By Brother Władysław, Scribe of the Holy Chronicle
Of The Tenfold Peoples of the Twelve Tribes
Of the Lechian Folk
Among the tenfold Cultures of the Twelve Tribes, none are more numerous nor more deeply bound to the foundations of Naissus than the Lechian folk. They dwell chiefly within the duchies of Lublin, Orion’s Gate, Eastgate, and Moravia, where fertile lands, ancient roads, and sacred strongholds have long shaped their character. From these heartlands, their influence has spread across the subcontinent, both in tongue and in faith.
The Lechians are a people of soil and sword, of prayer and endurance. Their customs are rooted in kinship, oath, and sacrifice, and their society is bound together by a deep reverence for tradition and divine order. Hospitality is held as sacred duty, yet betrayal is remembered for generations. Their nobles rule as dukes by ancient right, but even the lowliest farmer knows his place within the covenant of land, blood, and God.
Their speech, known formally as Lechitic, has become the dominant language of Naissus. Through trade, faith, and governance it has spread beyond its native duchies, and is now most often called simply the Common Tongue, spoken by merchants, soldiers, and clerics alike. Thus do the words of the Lechians shape not only thought, but law and scripture throughout the land.
It was from among this people that the House of Jarosław arose, chosen instruments in the shaping of the Church of Orion more than five centuries past. Through their devotion and resolve, the teachings of the Prophet were gathered, ordered, and sanctified, and the spiritual crown was placed not upon a mortal king, but upon the Holy Church itself. Since that age, the Lechian folk have been regarded as the Church’s staunchest defenders and its most faithful servants.
Yet with such legacy comes burden. For as the Lechians once stood at the birth of Naissus, so too shall they be judged by history should the covenant fail. In them lives both the memory of unity and the weight of expectation, for much of what Naissus is (and what it may yet become) was first forged by Lechian hands.
Of the Brabbanter Folk
The Brabbanters are a hardy people of road and border, forged by centuries of guarding contested ground. Accustomed to threat and movement, they prize endurance, loyalty, and readiness above comfort or refinement. Their settlements cluster along routes of trade and passage, where vigilance is not a duty, but a way of life.
Since the founding of the Church of Orion, it was the Brabbanters who were chosen to stand watch over Orion’s Bastion, entrusted with the sacred task of guarding the Prophet’s legacy in stone and steel. From that calling grew a bond unbroken by time, and to this day the entire ecclesiastical guard (known formally as the Oathbound of the Bastion) is drawn from their ranks alone. Clad in tradition and oath, they serve not as common soldiers, but as living symbols of vigilance and devotion.
Their culture favors directness in word and deed, and their steel has long been relied upon in times of unrest. The Church counts the Brabbanters among its most dependable defenders: their faith is simple, their obedience firm, and their loyalty unwavering. Where others debate, the Brabbanters stand… and though they lack subtlety, they are rarely found wanting when duty calls.
Of the Hollener Folk
The Holleners are a patient people, born of marsh and flood. Where land once lay drowned and unyielding, they carved order through discipline, cooperation, and tireless labor. Dikes, canals, and reclaimed fields stand as silent testimony to their resolve and communal spirit.
Their culture values restraint, planning, and collective duty. The Hollener tongue is plain and measured, and their customs favor consensus over command. They speak little, but remember much, and their loyalty… once given… is seldom withdrawn.
The Church holds the Holleners in quiet esteem. Their lives reflect the virtues of humility and perseverance, and their faith is sincere if unadorned. Yet their trust lies often in systems and order rather than miracle, and thus their belief is steady… but rarely fervent.
Of the Vlaander Folk
The Vlaanders are a people shaped by craft, industry, and ambition. Where others till soil or guard borders, the Vlaanders build, trade, and calculate. Their towns are marked by looms and ledgers, guild halls and counting houses, and their influence flows not from sword or scripture, but from skill and enterprise.
They are masters of textiles, commerce, and manufacture, and it is said that no market in Naissus remains untouched by Vlaander hands. Their language is precise, their contracts meticulous, and their culture prizes diligence above lineage.
To the Church, the Vlaanders are both asset and concern. Their prosperity strengthens the realm, yet their devotion is often tempered by profit. They honor Orion, but they also honor coin… and the Church teaches that such divided loyalties must ever be watched, lest industry grow prideful and forget its soul.
Of the Noirmarchais Folk
The Noirmarchais are a people of wind and salt, their heritage bound to the northern coasts and the long memory of the sea. It is said their ancestors once dwelled along the fringes of the ancient Elven Imperium, where survival demanded sharp wits and sharper tongues. From this harsh inheritance they learned to read tide and sky, to endure uncertainty, and to prize freedom of thought as dearly as land.
By tradition they are fishermen, sailors, and navigators, raised amid ropes and hulls, with a natural understanding of trade carried by water rather than road. Their speech is quick and expressive, their manners proud, and their songs are said to carry echoes of distant shores long lost to history.
The Church regards the Noirmarchais with cautious respect. Though their customs are older than the Covenant and their faith once uncertain, they have largely embraced Orion’s light. Yet traces of their seaborne past linger still—in superstition, in proverb, and in a restless spirit that has never fully learned to kneel.
Of the Verdain Folk
The Verdain are a people shaped by memory and loss, their roots bound to a duchy that once flourished in green abundance, now spoken of only in prayer and warning. In the old days, their homeland was commonly known as the Land of Verdance, a realm of fertile fields and quiet prosperity, where faith and order stood unchallenged.
Then fell the darkness. Swift and merciless, it swallowed the land entire, blotting out sun and season alike. Those who survived fled northward, carrying with them only fragments of their former lives… songs half remembered, banners torn, and names weighed down by grief. In mercy and duty, the Duchies of Night Harbor and Eastgate granted them land, upon which the young Duchy of Duskhaven was raised.
The Verdain culture is marked by endurance rather than triumph. Where others boast of conquest, they speak of survival. Their traditions honor restraint, humility, and the quiet dignity of those who rise again after ruin. Though once known for pageantry and heraldic splendor, their customs have grown somber, their devotion turned inward, shaped by the knowledge of how swiftly all earthly blessings may be taken away.
Yet they did not flee their homeland empty-handed in spirit. From the lost fields of Verdance they carried with them a deep love of vine and wine, a craft both sacred and communal. Along the very edges of the darkness, where the land still remembers what it once was, grow the blue grapes from which the Verdain now press their most treasured vintage. This wine is both remembrance and defiance… a testament to what was lost, and to what may yet be made from what remains.
Among the courts of Naissus, Verdain blue is often spoken of as second only to the red wines of Angaria. The Verdain themselves would never concede such a thing. To them, the wine of Duskhaven is the sweetest of all nectar, for it is born not of abundance, but of endurance.
To the Church, the Verdain stand as a living reminder of both God’s mercy and His judgment. They are a faithful people, though tempered by sorrow, whose prayers carry the weight of remembrance. Their land was lost, but their spirit was not… and so long as they remain within the Covenant, their suffering shall not have been in vain.
Of the Marsh Folk
Among the tenfold Peoples of the Twelve Tribes are those known as the Marsh Folk, a people born of reed and water, shaped by fog, fire, and endurance. Long before the Covenant, before the Crossing, and before Orion led mankind into freedom, they dwelt within the marshlands of the Elven Imperium, where stone gave way to mire and certainty to shadow.
It is said that the Marsh Folk were never wholly conquered. The Elves hunted them, captured them, and carried many away in chains over the long centuries, yet as a people they endured. The marsh swallowed roads and armies alike, and where others were broken, the Marsh Folk withdrew, scattered, and survived. Thus did the Elves fail to bind them entirely, for no empire may fully master land that refuses to be claimed.
When the time of exodus came and mankind fled bondage for Naissus, the Marsh Folk came as well… weathered, wary, and accustomed to standing watch against the dark. They settled along coasts and wetlands, where water and flame meet, bringing with them customs older than scripture and a faith shaped by vigilance rather than comfort.
Before Orion, they bowed to fire. Not as a god, as the heathen once did, but as a guardian against the endless night that crept through reed and fog. In wisdom, the Church did not seek to shatter this custom, but to sanctify it. Thus was the flame named a gift of Orion’s hand, a symbol of His watchfulness rather than a rival to His glory.
Even so, the Marsh Folk are set apart. Their priests are shepherds rather than scholars, their rites held beneath open sky instead of vaulted stone. Among them is kept a seventh sacrament, unspoken beyond their lands, born of flame and remembrance, tolerated by the Church as a lesser branch of the faith—so long as it bends toward the Covenant and does not turn away from it.
The Marsh Folk are a people of vigilance. They remember chains even when none remain upon their wrists, and thus they guard hearth and shore with equal devotion. To the Church, they stand as proof that not all freedom is born in triumph… some is earned slowly, step by step, through refusal to kneel. So long as their fires burn in Orion’s name, they remain within His light. But should the flame ever be placed above the Covenant, then what once protected them may yet lead them astray.
Of the Varanger Folk of Narva
Among the tenfold Peoples of the Twelve Tribes stand the Varangers of Narva, a sea-born folk shaped by wind, salt, and stubborn endurance. They dwell upon a barren isle where the cliffs break the waves and the cold gnaws at bone, a land the mainlanders long deemed forgotten by Orion’s light. Yet the Varangers endure where others would flee, for hardship is to them not a curse, but a measure of worth.
The Varangers are an ancient people, older in custom than in record. Their history is not written in parchment, but carried by skalds and spoken in long nights when the sea howls against timber halls. They claim descent not from soil, but from the ocean itself, and even now they offer prayers to wind and wave, as their forebears did before the Covenant was sworn.
When Orion came among them in the days of unification, the Varangers did not kneel in faith as others did. They were not won by doctrine nor by promise of salvation, but by their own oldest law: that he who overcomes the greatest among them is worthy of rule. Thus was Orion accepted… not as sole god of their hearts, but as one proven strong enough to bind them by oath.
For this reason, the Varangers remain a people apart. They honor the Covenant, yet do not forget the older ways. Their halls hold memories of gods not named in scripture, and their reverence is shared between Orion and forces far more ancient. The Church has long tolerated this bond, judging that an oath kept is better than a faith feigned, though such tolerance is never granted without caution.
The Varangers respect strength, cunning, and restraint. Among them, words may wound deeper than steel, and silence may carry greater authority than command. Their loyalty, once given, is fierce… but it is never blind. They obey not out of habit, but because tradition demands it, and tradition to them is law older than any crown.
Thus do the Varangers remain bound to Naissus: not by submission, but by pact. They are a storm held by oath alone, faithful so long as the old laws are honored. The Church watches them as one watches the sea… with vigilance, respect, and the knowledge that calm waters do not mean the storm has passed.
Of the Volchy, the Wolf Folk of the central-North
Among the tenfold Peoples of the Twelve Tribes are the Volchy, known in ecclesiastical record as the Wolf Folk. They dwell in the far central-northern reaches, where winter reigns longer than law and the forest swallows all who stray unprepared. Of all the tribes bound to Naissus, none have proven more resistant to the ordering hand of the Church.
The Volchy render their due in silver and steel, as required by covenant, yet they do not worship Orion. This is neither secret nor denied. They pray instead to older gods of winter, forest, and blood, and keep rites unknown to scripture. Such practices are tolerated only by necessity, for the Volchy neither seek inclusion nor feign devotion, and coercion has ever proven… unwise.
In governance, the Volchy do not follow the feudal customs of Naissus. They are ruled by their bojars, war-leaders and judges whose authority is upheld not by charter, but by strength, lineage, and the consent of the pack. A bojar who cannot defend his people does not rule them long. Law among the Volchy is immediate, personal, and enforced without appeal.
It is recorded that the Volchy were never enslaved by the Elves. Where other tribes were broken and bound, the Wolf Folk withdrew into ice and wilderness, turning cold and distance into shield and weapon. Elven patrols vanished in their forests, supply lines froze, and conquest proved unsustainable. Thus the Volchy endured unconquered, a fact they neither forget nor allow others to ignore.
In older days, the leading house among them, House Volkov, bore the title Tzar of Winter and Frost. Though this claim is no longer recognized by Dukedom nor Church, it persists in ritual and memory, and the authority of that house remains uncontested among the Volchy themselves. Titles may be stripped by decree, but belief is not so easily undone.
The Volchy are bound to Naissus by treaty alone. Their loyalty is conditional, their obedience measured, and their faith absent. Yet they have proven steadfast in war and unyielding in defense of their borders. The Church therefore counts them not among the faithful, but among the necessary… watching them as one watches a wolf at the edge of the firelight: aware that it keeps the darkness at bay, yet knowing it will never be tamed.
Of the Angarian People
Last among the peoples of Naissus are the Angarians, a folk once divided among three duchies, now bound beneath a single crown. Through conquest, accord, and blood, Angar, Kaloria, and Baleria were forged into one realm, and from that union arose the only monarchy to stand within Naissus since the death of the Prophet. Where others accepted autonomy under the Covenant, Angaria chose dominion.
The Angarians are a people of abundance and ambition. Their lands are warm and fertile, their harvests rich, their cities adorned with marble, color, and song. Trade flows through their harbors without cease, and their ships cross sea and horizon alike. In wealth and industry they surpass all other realms of Naissus, and they take this prosperity as proof of their chosen path.
Yet it is not gold nor grain that sets Angaria apart, but authority. Where the Church guards the spiritual crown, Angaria has claimed it for itself. The Angarians no longer kneel before the Archbishop, but before their monarch, who stands as both sovereign and supreme voice of faith within their realm. This union of throne and altar is named order by its architects, but is recorded by the Church for what it is: open heresy.
Loyalty in Angaria is not assumed; it is demanded. Oaths are sworn anew, dissent answered swiftly, and obedience rewarded with favor and advancement. Ritual and spectacle bind the people as tightly as law, and devotion to crown and country is taught as virtue. Thus are the Angarians united… not by shared humility, but by shared ambition.
The Angarians speak often of progress, of civilization, and of a future shaped by strength rather than restraint. They see the fractured north as backward, its Duchies relics of a weaker age, and the Covenant as a chain forged by fear. In their eyes, Naissus must be made whole again, not through faith, but through will.
The Church names Angaria neither barbarian nor heathen, but apostate… knowing full well the weight of that word. For the Angarians have seen the light of Orion and have spat upon it by choice. They did not stray in ignorance; they turned away in pride. Of all betrayals, none is fouler.
Let no man speak of doubt where certainty reigns. Angaria’s soul is not in question… it is lost. Its throne is built upon heresy, its altars upon blasphemy, and its laws upon the lie that man may crown himself above God. They clothe ambition in reason, tyranny in progress, and damnation in the language of destiny.
Thus Angaria stands: rich, defiant, and unrepentant. Its banners shine not with glory, but with stolen light, and its triumphs are but the last flourishes of a realm already condemned. For kingdoms that enthrone themselves above the Covenant do not endure… they rot. And when Angaria falls, it shall not be by accident, nor by misunderstanding, but by judgment long deserved, they shall burn in Orions holy fury!
— Written in the year of our Lord, 500 years after the Peace of the River.
By Brother Władysław, Scribe of the Holy Chronicle
The Nahzirites of the Great Desert
Of the Nahzirite Realm of the Great Desert
Beyond the Emerald Sea, where the fertile lands of Naissus give way to endless sand and burning sky, lies the realm of the Nahzirites. It is an empire of stone and silence, ancient in its customs and unwavering in its order. Once fractured into rival tribes and city-states, the desert is now bound beneath a single dominion, its unity enforced not by faith, but by design.
The Nahzirites are a people devoted to stability, trade, and foresight. Their caravans cross vast distances, their cities rise where water should not exist, and their influence stretches far beyond their borders. Yet their order is not born of God’s covenant, but of star-omens and whispered prophecies. They place their trust not in divine will, but in the guidance of oracles who claim to read the heavens themselves.
At the heart of their realm stands a throne crowned not by scripture, but by calculation. Though they name a king (in their language the; Rab-Malka), true power is said to rest within councils and unseen voices, where destiny is weighed as carefully as coin. No great decision is made without consulting the signs, and no ambition is pursued without assurance that the stars themselves approve.
Their faith speaks of celestial beings and a distant heavenly ruler who once walked among them and shall one day return. To us, such beliefs reek of heresy; yet even so, it cannot be denied that the Nahzirites endure, disciplined and unbroken, while many younger realms have fallen into chaos.
Twice in the long history of Naissus have the Nahzirites crossed the Emerald Sea in force, seeking to test the strength of the promised land. Twice were they met by the steel and faith of the Holy Northern Duchies, and twice were they cast back beyond the waters, their ambitions to claim the island of Narva broken upon shield and stone. Thus stands the border to this day… a line of memory, not peace.
Thus does the desert kingdom endure… ordered, ancient, and utterly foreign. A realm not chosen by God, yet not easily dismissed. For though their path is not ours, their gaze is ever turned westward, and the sands remember all who dare to forget what stirs beyond the Emerald Sea.
— Written in the year of our Lord, 500 years after the Peace of the River.
By Brother Władysław, Scribe of the Holy Chronicle
The Kharovites of the Steppe
Of the Kharovite Clans of the Steppe
To the northeast of Naissus stretch the boundless steppes, a sea of grass without wall or border. There dwell the Kharovites, a wandering people bound not to land nor city, but to horse and horizon. They raise no lasting stone, swear no enduring oath, and leave little behind save trampled earth and fearful memory.
In the chronicles of the Church, the Kharovites are named raiders and despoilers, striking without warning at isolated settlements before vanishing once more into the vastness of the plains. They shun open battle, favoring speed and withdrawal over honor, and thus are remembered by many as cowards clad in courage’s likeness. Their presence is felt not in conquest, but in absence… empty granaries, burned homes, and roads rendered unsafe.
Yet I, Brother Władysław, must record with honesty that much of what is known of the Kharovites is born of rumor and secondhand witness. Few among the faithful have dwelled long upon the steppe, and fewer still have returned with clear knowledge rather than fear. It may be that their ways are more ordered than we perceive, and that our understanding of them is clouded by distance and old enmities.
But this much is beyond doubt: the Kharovites do not walk in the light of Orion. They bow to no prophet of the Covenant, raise no altar to the true God, and know no law sanctified by scripture. Whatever customs they keep, they are held apart from the divine order that binds the Twelve Tribes. And where the light of Orion is absent, darkness is never far behind.
Thus are the Kharovites judged… not by what they may yet be, but by what they are not. Until such a day comes when they turn from the steppe and kneel before the true faith, they shall remain to us a people of uncertainty and threat, riders upon the margins of the world, whose paths cross ours only in blood and fire.
For now, the Kharovites remain beyond the Emerald Sea and the sacred River of Peace, and by these waters are they held at bay. They possess neither fleets nor harbors, nor any craft worthy of the name, and thus pose no immediate threat to the lands of Naissus. Whether this is by choice, by custom, or by limitation, I cannot say. Yet one cannot help but wonder if such a people… so bound to saddle and soil… lack not only the means, but the wit required to master the making of ships. If so, then let the waters stand as God’s mercy made manifest, a barrier against these simple barbarians, whose reach ends where true craft and higher reason begin.
— Written in the year of our Lord, 500 years after the Peace of the River.
By Brother Władysław, Scribe of the Holy Chronicle
The Elven Imperium
Of The Dark Elven Imperium Beyond the River
Beyond the sacred River of Peace lies the realm of the Elves, a land shrouded in silence and ancient malice. Of its true nature little is known, for it is not a place meant for mortal eyes, nor a truth meant to be spoken lightly. What is known has been passed down through holy scripture and solemn warning, preserved by the Church since the days of our deliverance.
In the age before the Covenant, the Elves ruled the world in darkness. They enslaved the Twelve Tribes, bent mankind beneath their cruel dominion, and fed upon the suffering of the faithful. They were not as men are, but something older, colder, and utterly devoid of mercy. Their power was vast, their pride boundless, and their hatred for mankind without end.
It was the Prophet Orion who rose against them, chosen by God to shatter the chains of bondage and lead His people into the Promised Land. By divine will, the Elves were cast beyond the great river, and the Peace of the River was sworn… a most sacred boundary set between light and darkness, upheld by oath, blood, and sacrament.
The Church teaches that this peace is not born of trust, but of restraint. The Elves do not forget, nor do they forgive. They wait beyond the waters, patient and eternal, watching for weakness, heresy, and division among the faithful. Should the Covenant be broken, should the sacraments be neglected, or the unity of the Church undone, the ancient evil shall return to claim what it believes was once its own.
Thus are the Elves named the Great Adversary in holy teaching… not merely an enemy of flesh, but a warning given form. As long as the River stands and the faith endures, Naissus shall remain free. But should either fail, the darkness beyond the waters will not.
— Written in the year of our Lord, 500 years after the Peace of the River.
By Brother Władysław, Scribe of the Holy Chronicle