When the Prophet Orion’s banner first rose over Naissus, twelve tribes stood beside him… twelve peoples who cast off the yoke of the Elven Imperium and forged a new destiny in the shadow of the River. In the centuries that followed, their leaders became the first noble houses of Naissus: stewards of the lands, keepers of the faith, and architects of the realm.
Known collectively as the Great Houses, these bloodlines formed the pillars upon which Naissus was built. Each was granted dominion over a portion of the liberated lands, bound by oath to serve both church and creed. From them sprang warriors, scholars, priests, and kings… those whose deeds shaped not only the borders of a nation but the soul of its people.
Though time has eroded their unity, and some of their banners now lie buried in ash, their legacy endures. The names of the Twelve are still spoken with reverence and fear, for to trace their history is to trace the history of Naissus itself.
“They were not born of privilege, but of purpose; not of conquest, but of conviction.”
— The Annals of Naissus, Vol. II, attributed to High Scholar Emmerich of the Collegium of Orion, written in 500 AR
House Lipski
Seat: Lublin
Coat of arms: The Bison of the two hills
Family Heirloom: The Lipski Warhammer
Current Dynastic Head: Duke Boris Lipski, the Bison of Lublin, Lord of the Iron Coast, Protector of the Bison Hills, Warlord of the North, and Conqueror of Foes.
Waldemar Lipski of the Northern Hills (35 BR – 30 AR
Waldemar Lipski, founder of House Lipski and lord of the northeast, was among the Twelve who sat beside the Prophet Orion at the signing of the Peace of the River. A warrior of towering frame and temper equal to his strength, Waldemar was said to have shattered an elven champion’s helm with a single blow during the final battle of the rebellion.
For his valor he was granted the lands between the great river and the shadowed forest that would forever bear his name… the Lipski Forest. There, between two hills, he founded the city of Lublin, whose veins of rich iron ore soon made it the industrial heart of Naissus. Beneath Waldemar’s rule, miners, smiths, and traders flocked to the city, and the first foundries of the realm were raised under his banner.
He ruled with the directness of a soldier: fair to the loyal, merciless to the defiant. His words “Strength is the root of all order” became the creed of his descendants, and his sigil, a brown bison between two green hills, came to symbolize both endurance and unyielding will.
When Waldemar Lipski died in 30 AR, his body was interred in the crypt beneath Lublin’s great forge, his hammer laid across his chest. The fires of his furnaces burned for three days and nights in mourning, their smoke rising over the valley like a final salute to the man who had forged both steel and legacy. The only thing that remained in the fire was his warhammer, which became a family heirloom.
Duke Kazimierz Lipski (287–342 AR)
Few names in the annals of Naissus carry both power and shame as that of Kazimierz Lipski, Duke of the Northern Hills and master of Lublin during the third century after the River. A man of commanding intellect and fiery disposition, he inherited his forefather’s gift for leadership… and their curse of temper.
Bound by his father’s will, Kazimierz was wed to Lady Adrianna of Orions Gate, sister to the Duke of that realm. Their union, though politically prudent, was cold from the first. Chronicles speak of his disdain for her, and of the whispers that soon spread through Lublin… that the duke’s heart belonged not to his wife, but to his own sister, Lady Ewa Lipski.
In the year 314 AR, the scandal turned to horror. Lady Adrianna was found dead in her chambers, her throat cut, her body burned in the forges beneath Lublin. Within weeks, Duke Kazimierz publicly declared his love for Ewa and wed her in defiance of the Church. Their marriage produced three children, and for two years the house of Lipski lived in open defiance of law and faith alike.
The outrage was swift. The Duke of Orions Gate declared war to avenge his sister’s death. The conflict, known as the War of the River’s Shadow (315–317 AR), lasted two bitter years and ended only in a white peace, neither side victorious, though thousands perished along the northern frontier.
In 318 AR, the High Council of Naissus convened to judge the sin that had blackened the realm. The Archbishop of Naissus annulled the marriage, declared the children of the union bastards, and decreed that all future unions between siblings be forbidden under pain of death.
Faced with the threat of invasion from his peers and excommunication by the Church, Duke Kazimierz yielded. His sister-wife Ewa, and the corpse of his slain first wife Adrianna, were both condemned in absentia. Their bodies… real or symbolically represented… were burned upon the pyres at Orion’s Bastion as a warning to all who defied divine order.
Kazimierz lived out his remaining years in silence, ruling from Lublin but stripped of his dignity. He remarried under Church sanction, though no songs recall the name of his third wife. His children by Ewa were declared bastards.
“Thus did the hammer of the North strike his own anvil, and shatter both iron and honor.” — Excerpt from the Annals of the River, Book VII
The War of the Three Bastards (342–351 AR)
Upon the death of Duke Kazimierz Lipski, the northern realm of Lublin descended into chaos. The Duke’s lawful heir, Bartosz Lipski, son of his third and final marriage, inherited his father’s title and the forges of the north. Yet his claim was immediately contested by the three bastards… the unacknowledged children born of Kazimierz’s forbidden union with his sister, Lady Ewa Lipski.
What began as a dispute of succession soon erupted into open war. Each of the three bastards… Witold, Jan, and Klara… commanded loyal retinues of soldiers, merchants, and smiths, turning the once-prosperous city of Lublin into a furnace of rebellion.
For nearly a decade, assassinations, skirmishes, and open battles scarred the northern hills. The blood of brothers stained the riverbanks, and every forge that once shaped iron now shaped blades for kin-slaying. Chroniclers call it “the war where fire knew no master.”
In 351 AR, the conflict reached its end in both sin and irony. The lawful Duke Bartosz wed Klara, the youngest of the three bastards, sealing a fragile peace through an act as forbidden as it was fateful. Though their union was condemned by many within the Church, Archbishop Roderic of Naissus granted special dispensation, declaring that “kin divided by law are not divided by God.”
The marriage ended the civil strife but left deep fractures within the nobility. To some, it was a miracle of reconciliation; to others, an abomination cloaked in ritual. The northern clergy split in outrage, and several bishops openly defied the Archbishop’s ruling, marking the first signs of the schism that would later trouble the Church for generations.
Though peace returned to Lublin, it was a peace tempered by guilt and shadow. The forges of House Lipski roared once more, but every hammer strike seemed to echo with the memory of a brother’s scream.
Bartosz Lipski
The War of the Three Bastards (342–351 AR)
Duke Boris Lipski (463 AR – Age 37 in 500 AR)
Boris Lipski, Duke of Lublin and lord of the northern forges, is known across Naissus as “the Bison of Lublin.” Massive in frame and fierce of spirit, he is the living heir to an ancient bloodline of iron and fire. Few men of this age command such fear… or such loyalty.
Boris is a veteran of two great wars: the War of the Three Dukes and the Second Nazhirite War. In both, he earned renown for his ferocity and unyielding courage, leading his soldiers from the front, hammer in hand. The scars that mark his body are said to be as numerous as the dents upon his armor.
Ever since the war of the three bastards, House Lipski practiced the tradition of cousin marriage, binding blood to blood in the name of strength and purity. The cost was madness, sickness, and sterility. Boris broke this cycle, becoming the first Lipski since Kazimierz the Cursed to marry outside the family. His union with Lady Hilda Radzimirski… Sister of Duke Albin Radzimirski of Orions Gate…. was seen by some as an act of renewal, and by others as heresy against his forebears.
Under his rule, the city of Lublin endures as the beating heart of Naissus’s steel trade, though its mines grow thin and its rivalry with the dwarves of the Iron Vein burns hotter than ever. Boris’s temper is legend; he has shattered tables in the royal court and once hurled a silver chalice at a bishop. Yet his brutality is tempered by an unexpected tenderness toward his daughter, Lady Milena, whom he guards with the same fury he brings to war. The child was once called cursed but after the investigation of Hussar knight Pawel the child was sparred death. He also has a son, Albert Lipski, named by his mother Lady Hilda.
Boris is no courtier, and no scholar. But to his men, he is a lord in the truest sense… one who bleeds beside them, curses with them, and stands unbroken where others bend.
House Jaroslaw
Seat: Jarosgrad
Coat of arms: The Eagle praying under a burning star.
Family Heirloom: The first holy Scripture
Current Dynastic Head: Duke Yuri Jaroslaw, Defender of the Faith and Protector of the Eastern Shores.
Archbishop Stanisław Jaroslaw (30 BR – 38 AR)
Stanisław Jaroslaw, founder of House Jaroslaw and first Archbishop of Naissus, was the man who gave form and law to the faith of Orion. A soldier turned priest, he was known for his austerity, his iron discipline, and his unwavering belief that righteousness could exist only through order.
During the Prophet’s final years, Stanisław served as both counselor and confessor. After Orion’s death, when the question arose of who would guide the faithful, he stood before the Twelve Tribes and declared that the word of the Prophet must live not through dukes, but through the Church. His rival, Aitor Garmendia, argued for wisdom and learning; Stanisław argued for obedience and law. The council chose him… and from that choice was born the Church of Orion.
Crowned as the first Archbishop, Stanisław established the doctrines that would shape Naissus for centuries. He codified the Six Original Commandments, decreed that the clergy answer only to the Word and not to worldly crowns, and changed Orion’s Bastion from a keep to a citadel of faith from which the Church would rule the spirit of man.
He was a man of sharp contrasts: humble in living, ruthless in principle. The chronicles tell that he once flogged a bishop for wearing a gold ring and excommunicated an entire town for refusing to pay tithes. Yet even his enemies admitted that he believed wholly in his purpose… that humanity could survive only through divine discipline.
Stanisław died in 38 AR, after nearly four decades of service, leaving behind not riches but an institution. His bloodline, though sworn to the cloth, became one of Naissus’s most powerful noble houses… the Guardians of the Word, forever entwined with the fate of the Church and the throne alike. While he had served as Archbishop, his younger brother had served as Duke of Eastgate.
“Mercy is for the innocent. The guilty must be shown the way through pain.” — Stanisław Jaroslaw, Codex of the Faith, I:12
Duke Wacław Jaroslaw, “the Mad Prelate” (145–192 AR)
Wacław Jaroslaw, remembered in scripture and song as “the Mad Prelate”, was both the most devout and the most accursed of his house. Born to privilege and prophecy, he studied the sacred writings of the Church from youth, showing early brilliance in theology, languages, and law. Yet where others found wisdom, Wacław found warning.
By his middle years, he had withdrawn entirely to his fortress-palace, Jarosgrad, a towering citadel of stone and spires rising above the eastern cliffs. There he surrounded himself with monks, hermits, and mystics, poring over forbidden scrolls said to predate the Prophet himself. He became convinced that the end of days was at hand, and that Naissus had strayed so far from Orion’s word that only fire could cleanse it.
As his mind darkened, his sermons turned from salvation to doom. The chronicles of the Bastion record that he declared his own household unclean, and that “the blood of innocence must be offered to restore the covenant.”
In 192 AR, on the night of the winter solstice, Wacław gathered his court in the Cathedral of Jarosgrad. There, before the altar, he burned his two daughters alive, proclaiming that their sacrifice would open heaven’s gate and spare the world from judgment.
His younger brother, Lord Marius Jaroslaw, rode through the night to stop him, but arrived too late. The cathedral was ablaze, the air filled with screams and smoke. When Marius beheld the horror, he struck his brother down before the altar, slaying him with his own sword.
The Church declared the event an unspeakable blasphemy, sealing the ruins of Jarosgrad off cathedral and banning all pilgrimage to its grounds. Lord Marius restored the duchy, but never forgave himself; he entered the priesthood the following year and died in silence.
The fires of Jarosgrad still burn in legend… ghostly lights said to flicker upon the hills each winter’s night. To this day, the clergy refuse to sanctify the soil, and the name Wacław Jaroslaw is forbidden to be spoken in any mass.
The War of the Three Dukes (466–470 AR)
The War of the Three Dukes stands as one of the last great feudal wars of Naissus… a conflict born of pride, scarcity, and the fading memory of mercy.
It began when Duke Kazimir Jaroslaw, Duke of Eastgate, conspired with Duke Janiz Vang of Night-harbor to seize the lands of Duskhaven, whose rich plains had long been coveted by the northern houses. Kazimir argued that their ancestors had given too freely when they granted sanctuary to the refugees of the Verdant March two centuries before. “What was mercy,” he wrote, “has become theft.”
Janiz Vang, whose own holdings along the western coast suffered from poor soil and failing harvests, agreed. In the spring of 466 AR, their combined armies marched, Vang forces from the west and Jaroslaw forces from the east.
The invasion struck swiftly and without warning. Duke Filip of Duskhaven met them in open battle and fell amidst the carnage… but his son, Waldemar, only sixteen years of age, rallied the remnants of his father’s host and turned defeat into deliverance. At dusk upon the third day of battle, the young duke led a counterattack that shattered the invader’s lines and drove them in rout from the field.
The victory was costly. The fields of Duskhaven burned, and half its knights lay dead beside their slain duke. House Vang capitulated soon after, and Kazimir Jaroslaw, unwilling to continue the war alone, signed a white peace with Waldemar.
None among them foresaw the consequence. The defeat at Duskhaven was interpreted by the Nazhirite Oracles as a sign of weakness within the southern realms. Only a few years later, the Invasion of Eastgate began. The city was besieged for sixty days; its walls trembled and its harbors burned.
Salvation came when Duke Waldemar of Duskhaven, now grown and hardened by war, marched northeast with an allied host… joined by the young Boris Lipski of Lublin and Toomas Vang of Night-harbor, son of his former foe. Together they broke the siege and drove the Nazhirite armies back into the sea.
Thus, from the ashes of betrayal was forged an alliance of necessity… proof that even in Naissus, the wounds of pride can heal when the shadow grows long enough to swallow all men alike.
Kazimir of Eastgate ruled a proud and ancient duchy… and lived to see it crumble beneath the weight of his own shame. Once a pious and capable lord, he fell into despair after his city was saved not by his own hand, but by the very men who had once been his enemies: Waldemar of Duskhaven, Boris Lipski, and Toomas Vang of Night-harbor.
The victory that should have restored his honor instead shattered his spirit. Kazimir came to believe that Orion himself had turned away, punishing him for pride and weakness. He abandoned the duties of rule and devoted his life wholly to the Church, seeking redemption through prayer and deprivation.
As the years passed, his devotion rotted into madness. He ceased to govern, ceased to bathe, and ceased even to speak with his kin. His hair and beard grew wild, his robes tattered, and his words… once eloquent… turned to broken sermons of judgment and fire.
Under his neglect, Eastgate decayed. The roads filled with bandits, trade vanished, and the city’s great walls stood unmanned while their ruler knelt in ceaseless prayer. Courtiers whispered that he no longer sought forgiveness, but punishment.
In 485 AR, Kazimir was found dead within the Cathedral of Eastgate, kneeling before the altar with his hands clasped and eyes open toward the dome above. The priests called it divine release; others whispered that the gods had at last granted him the silence he so desperately sought.
He was succeeded by his eldest son, Yuri of Eastgate, who inherited not a realm… but a ruin of faith, stone, and sorrow.
Duke Yuri Jaroslaw of Eastgate (466 AR– age 34 in 500 AR)
Yuri of Eastgate, son of the penitent Duke Kazimir, inherited not a duchy but a ruin. When his father died in 485 AR, Yuri was but nineteen years of age, yet already possessed of a cold intellect and an unbending will. Within a decade, he restored Eastgate from decay to dominance… turning a land once consumed by fanaticism into one ruled by order, discipline, and fear.
Where his father had sought salvation, Yuri sought control. He restructured the duchy’s administration, rebuilt the army, and purged the bandits who had plagued its roads. Under his iron rule, the city’s forges burned once more, its merchants returned, and the bridges of the eastern rivers flowed with trade. The Church praised him for restoring stability… though many whispered that his faith served the state, not the other way around.
Known for his pragmatism and severity, Yuri tolerated neither corruption nor sentiment. It was said that he “measured men by their use, not their prayers,” and that even his closest advisors feared the weight of his silence more than his wrath.
His younger brother, Baron Vitaly, was granted the baronies of Vespermark and Slanec, ensuring the family’s hold over the duchy. Together, the brothers forged an efficient… if cold… dominion, remembered for its prosperity and its lack of mercy.
Yuri delayed marriage for many years, claiming that duty left no time for heirs. Only in 498 AR, at the age of thirty-two, did he wed Lady Alina of Orion’s Gate, a noblewoman renowned for her beauty and grace. She was but seventeen at the time of their union, yet the match united Eastgate’s steel with the wealth and influence of Orions Gate… a union of power rather than love.
By 500 AR, Duke Yuri of Eastgate stands as one of the most formidable lords in Naissus… a man who rebuilt what faith had ruined, and who rules not through devotion, but through the precision of reason.
House Van Der Marcke
Seat: Nieuwbrugg
Coat of arms: A blue roster against a field of gold
Family Heirloom: The golden bow
Current Dynastic Head: Duke Lambert Van Der Marcke, Supreme Patron of the Merchant Guilds, Whose Wealth Flows Like the Tides.
Hendrik van der Marcke of Westport (40 BR – 48 AR)
Hendrik van der Marcke, founder of House van der Marcke and first Duke of Westport, was both bowman and broker… a man who could win wars with his aim and end them with his tongue. Among the Twelve who stood beside the Prophet Orion, none were more skilled in the arts of negotiation, nor more beloved by the common folk.
Before the Peace of the River, Hendrik had been a leader among the coastal tribes of the northwest, where the rivers met the sea beneath the vast canopy of the Starwood. Through a mix of diplomacy and cunning, he united three warring peoples… the Vlaanders, the Holleners, and the Brabbanters… into a single tribe. From that union arose the realm that would one day be called Westport.
When the Prophet granted him dominion over the western coast, Hendrik founded the city of Nieuwbrugg, “the New Bridge,” upon the delta’s fertile banks. There, he built shipyards, workshops, and market halls, turning a frontier into a forge of wealth. His artisans crafted the first crossbows of Naissus, and his merchants opened the earliest sea routes across the Emerald Sea.
Though he was a warrior by birth, Hendrik is remembered more for creation than conquest. His coin bore the image of a bridge… symbol of unity… and his banner, a proud roster upon a field of gold, came to represent both skill and steadfastness.
He fathered six children: five daughters and one son. To each daughter he granted a guild, a ship, or a market charter, weaving his bloodline into the fabric of commerce itself. His only son, Alaric van der Marcke, inherited Westport and the art of trade rather than war… and it is said that no man of his house has since taken up arms save to defend a contract.
“A sword divides men; a bridge unites them.” — Hendrik van der Marcke, Letters from the River
Duke Alaric VII van der Marcke (420–487 AR)
Alaric VII van der Marcke, seventh Duke of Westport and distant descendant of Hendrik the Bridge-Builder, restored his house to prominence through wit and commerce rather than war. In an age of zeal and division, he stood as the voice of pragmatism… a man who believed that prosperity was the truest sign of divine favor.
When Fernando III of Angar broke with the Church in 471 AR, declaring an independent Angarian crown, the northern lords condemned him as a heretic. Only Alaric of Westport defied the decree. Against the fury of bishops and peers, he re-opened the western trade routes to Angaria, dispatching caravans and ships laden with timber, salt, and grain in exchange for southern steel and fine wine.
In 476 AR, he signed the Compact of Nieuwbrugg, the first formal accord between Angaria and the northern realms. The Church branded it blasphemy; Alaric called it necessity. His defiance brought wealth to Westport even as the rest of the north languished in piety and famine.
When Fernando III died in 486 AR, Alaric followed scarcely a year later. Chroniclers note that his passing marked the end of the old pragmatists… men who valued bridges over banners. In the centuries that followed, his name would be spoken in both reverence and resentment: a heretic to the clergy, a savior to the merchants.
The coinage of Westport still bears his chosen symbol… a silver bridge upon a field of blue, spanning two shores… a reminder that where others built walls, he built passage.
Duke Lambert van der Marcke (450 AR – Age 50 in 500 AR)
Lambert van der Marcke, eighth Duke of Westport and heir to the mercantile legacy of his forefathers, is a man famed for his subtlety… and, some would whisper, for his unwillingness to choose. A master of negotiation and a cautious broker of peace, he has ruled for two decades without war, scandal, or decisive allegiance.
Under his leadership, Westport remains a neutral haven between the rival powers of Angaria and the northern duchies. Merchants from both sides of the realm trade freely within its harbors, and Lambert’s coinage… stamped with the silver bridge of his house… circulates from the Iron Hills to the Emerald Sea. His critics call him “the Duke of Maybe,” claiming that he never speaks a promise he cannot later reshape; his allies insist that his silence has preserved the wealth of ten thousand men.
Though shrewd in commerce, Lambert’s personal life is marked by quiet melancholy. Married for over twenty-five years to Lady Annette of Broek, he has sired no children. As the years pass, all eyes turn to his younger brother, Lord Godefroy van der Marcke, who is expected to inherit the duchy. Godefroy, more outspoken and adventurous than his elder, has already taken a seat in the Merchant Council of Nieuwbrugg, where many see in him the vigor that Lambert lacks.
The duke’s two sisters, Lady Marguerite and Lady Juliet, are wed to powerful guild-masters of Westport’s merchant class, their alliances ensuring that the house’s influence over trade endures even without heirs of the blood.
To this day, Lambert maintains his family’s ancient creed: “Trade above creed, coin above crown.” Whether history will remember him as a wise steward or a man too cautious to shape his age, remains to be seen.
House Vang
Seat: Velmari
Coat of arms: a serpent coiled about a torch, green against black.
Family Heirloom: The Serpent spear
Current Dynastic Head: Duke Toomas Vang, High Lord of the Clanlands,
Bearer of the Eternal Flame.
Aivar Vang, “the Serpent of the Marsh” (25 BR – 30 AR)
Aivar Vang, founder of House Vang and first Chieftain of the Unified Marsh-folk, was a man shrouded in myth as much as history. Among the Twelve who followed the Prophet Orion, none were more feared… or more misunderstood… than the silent hunter from the mire. To the lowlanders he was a phantom; to his own people, a living omen… the serpent who guarded the flame.
Before the uprising, Aivar ruled the Vang clan, one of many clans scattered across the vast marshlands at the edge of the elven dominions. Unlike most human folk of the borderlands, the marsh tribes had never bowed to elven chains. They knew every reed, every hidden path, every sinkhole that swallowed invaders whole. Protected by mud, mist, and faith, they endured where others fell.
The marsh-folk worshipped fire… small flames in a world of shifting water… and Aivar was their fiercest devotee. His spear, carved in the likeness of a coiling serpent, was said to drip with venom strong enough to still a stag in a single heartbeat. Tales claim that he could speak to snakes, and that his eyes, narrow and gleaming amber, marked him not as blessed but as dangerous.
When the Prophet Orion passed through the borderlands at the dawn of the rebellion, few expected the Marsh-Clans to heed his call. Yet Aivar saw in Orion not a threat, but a chance to preserve what the elves had long sought to extinguish: freedom. Through a mixture of cunning, ritual, and raw authority, he united the fractious clans… the Vang, the Saarik, the Jarviks, and the Fenwalkers… under a single banner.
From that unlikely alliance arose a force the elves could not subdue. Marsh-warriors moved like shadows through water and reed, striking and vanishing, turning the tide of the uprising in battles still sung in the half-forbidden hymns of the borderlands.
Though Aivar was a warrior, he is remembered not for conquest but for defiance. He forged unity out of distrust, faith out of fear, and a people out of scattered clans. His banner bore a serpent coiled about a torch, green against black, symbol of both danger and devotion.
When the uprising ended and the lands of Naissus were divided among the tribes, none questioned where the marshlands should fall. The swamps, were granted to his people. From this inheritance arose the realm now known as the Duchy of Night Harbour.
Aivar’s descendants would rule these waters for generations, not by decree but through the enduring respect earned by his legacy. Those who met him claimed the man who walked beside Orion was part human, part myth… and that when he died, the serpents of the marsh fell silent for three days.
“Where fire endures, no darkness can claim us.” — Aivar Vang, the Flame-Vow Ceremony
Duke Tarmo Vang (220–276 AR)
Tarmo Vang, heir to the legacy of the Serpent of the Marsh, ruled not through fear or fire but through respect. In keeping with the ancient customs of his people, he never placed his ducal crown above the will of the clans. Though he bore the title of Duke of Night Harbor, he remained first among equals, a speaker rather than a sovereign. Every great decision of his reign was made through council, where each clan-chief of the marsh had a voice.
His age was one of both quiet prosperity and mounting dread. In 250 AR, when the Green Lands were swallowed in unnatural night and refugees streamed across the borders, Tarmo stood at a crossroads that would shape the century. At the meeting of the drowned paths, he and Duke Jaroslaw of East Gate forged an accord that would echo through generations. Land was ceded by both their realms, and upon that shared soil, the Duchy of Duskhaven was born… a refuge raised from catastrophe.
As part of this pact, Tarmo embraced the Faith of Orion. It was a decision that shocked many of his people, for the marsh-folk had kept their flame-worship since time immemorial. Yet Tarmo did not renounce the old ways; he sought to weave them into something new. He argued that there was no contradiction between the sacred fire of the marshes and the divine light of Orion… that flame could serve both tradition and truth.
His reforms were slow to bear fruit. Many in Night Harbour called his conversion heresy, others treachery. Still, he refused to bend. He established shrines where fire and scripture stood side by side, taught the young that reverence need not be divided, and insisted that faith was strongest when it could hold two truths at once.
Tarmo’s death remains shrouded in smoke and speculation. He perished in a great fire that consumed the old council-hall at Velmari. Though the official accounts speak of an accident, whispers have endured for centuries… that the blaze was set by traditionalists who saw in Tarmo’s vision not unity but betrayal.
Yet history remembers him differently: as a bridge-builder of faith, a leader who bowed to no throne save the will of his people, and a man who believed that even in the marsh, flame and light could coexist.
The War of the Three Dukes (466–470 AR)
For House Vang, the War of the Three Dukes stands as a wound carved not only into marshland memory, but into the soul of Night Harbour itself. What began as a bargain of necessity became a stain of shame that would haunt the Vang line for generations.
When Duke Janiz Vang agreed to Kazimir Jaroslaw’s proposal to seize the fertile plains of Duskhaven, he did so under the shadow of hunger. The western marshlands had endured years of lean harvests, their soils exhausted and their rivers fouled by creeping salt. Janiz, raised in the tradition of the clan-councils, believed he acted for the survival of his people. “The marsh endures,” he wrote, “but even the reed must bend when the waters fail.”
Kazimir’s words found a place in his fear. Together they argued that the lands given after the Verdant March had been a gift too generous, a sacrifice their ancestors could no longer afford. And so, in the spring of 466 AR, Janiz committed the warriors of Night Harbor to a cause he believed was just… though his heart, some say, wavered even as he marched.
The Vang host struck from the west while Jaroslaw’s banners advanced from the east. Their invasion was swift, their intent decisive. But it was met with a fury neither duke had foreseen. Duke Filip of Duskhaven fell in the first clash, yet his son, the young Waldemar, rose like a storm from the ashes. At dusk on the third day, Waldemar shattered the Vang lines and drove them back into the marsh from which they had come.
The retreat of Night Harbour was bitter and blood-soaked. Clan-chiefs who had followed Janiz out of loyalty now questioned the war; others whispered that the marsh had turned against them for striking a realm that had never raised blade against their own. Janiz capitulated soon after, his council refusing to send a single warrior more. Alone and exposed, Kazimir Jaroslaw sued for peace.
Yet the consequences of their failure would reach far beyond the borders of Duskhaven.
When the Nazhirite Oracles interpreted the defeat as a sign of weakness in the southern realms, Night Harbour braced for a reckoning. It came only years later, when the Invasion of Eastgate threatened to drown the world in foreign fire. And in that moment, the Vang line faced a choice: cling to old shame, or forge something greater from its remnants.
Duke Janiz’s son, Toomas Vang, chose the latter. Young, untested, and determined to cleanse his house’s name, he rallied the marsh-clans and marched beside Waldemar of Duskhaven and Boris Lipski of Lublin. Together, the three broke the siege of Eastgate and hurled the invaders back into the sea.
For House Vang, the war ended not in defeat, but in redemption bought with blood.
The victory forged a friendship between Toomas and Waldemar that would define their age… proof that even the darkest choices of a father need not bind the path of his son. Where Janiz Vang’s legacy was caution and regret, Toomas’s became courage and renewal.
In Night Harbor, people say the marsh remembers every step taken upon it… but it also forgives. And in the War of the Three Dukes, House Vang learned both lessons well.
Duke Janiz Vang did not long survive the shame of the War of the Three Dukes… not in body, but in spirit. Once a cautious yet capable ruler, he found himself hollowed by regret. The clans whispered that he had led them into a war the marsh itself rejected, and Janiz, raised in the old ways where a leader who stood only with the consent of his people, felt the weight of every murmur.
After the defeat at Duskhaven and the bitter return to Night Harbor, he withdrew from council and clan alike. His voice, once steady, grew brittle; his judgment faltered. Finally, in the winter of 470 AR, he summoned the chiefs of the marsh and laid down his spear… the ancient symbol of Vang authority… before them. Without ceremony or protest, he abdicated in favor of his son, Toomas, declaring himself unworthy to speak for the marshfolk any longer.
Janiz spent the remainder of his days in quiet seclusion among the reed-isles, fishing and tending small flame-shrines, seeking the forgiveness of ancestors who had always demanded more than any mortal could give. When he died, the clans mourned him not as a failed duke, but as a man who had carried his shame with dignity.
Toomas Vang ascended in a different age… and with a different vision. Instead of lifting his house Spear he hid it away, a sign of what would define his rule.
To seal the peace forged in fire, Toomas wed Waldemars of Duskhaven sister. Their marriage bound marsh and plain, turning a former enemy into Night Harbor’s closest ally. Yet Toomas’s ambitions stretched far beyond reconciliation.
Having witnessed the limits of clan-rule, he became convinced that the marshlands could no longer be governed by the ancient customs of council and chieftain. “A people divided by reeds cannot stand against the tide,” he wrote in his early letters. He argued that the time of the clans was fading, and that Night Harbor must embrace the aristocratic governance of the wider Naissus realms if it hoped to survive the coming centuries.
Under his leadership, roads were dredged from muck, watch-posts raised on stone foundations, and the first true harbor-fortress constructed in Velmari. Toomas invited scholars and priests from Duskhaven to help restructure the laws of the marsh, seeking to replace custom with codified governance. Many hailed him as the great modernizer of the west.
But not all welcomed his reforms. Elder clans muttered that he sought to bury the old ways beneath stone and parchment. Others feared that the flame-faith of the marsh would be diluted beyond recognition in his quest for progress.
Whether Toomas Vang will succeed in reshaping Night Harbor… or whether the marsh will yet rise to swallow his ambitions… remains a question for an age still unfolding.
For now, history remembers him as the son who redeemed his house, the husband who forged peace from war, and the duke who dared to believe that a land of mud and fire could become something new without forgetting what it had been.
House Ztratt
Seat: Duskhaven
Coat of arms: A silver sword infront of a grey fort under a purple sky.
Family Heirloom: The Sword Of The Dusk
Current Dynastic Head: Duke Waldemar Ztratt, The Old Fox.
Sir Mikolaj Ztratt, “the Dusk-Rider” (c. 40–70 AR)
House Ztratt is the lone Great House of Naissus that did not receive its station from Orion at the River’s Peace. Its earliest years were never set into any sanctioned chronicle; what survives instead is a braid of tavern-song, chapel-whisper, and borderland legend—stories told too often to be dismissed, and too inconsistently to be proven.
All such tales begin with Mikolaj Ztratt, a hedge-knight with no keep to his name and no banner but the one stitched into his cloak by his own hand. He rode where coin and trouble gathered: escorting pilgrims through wolf-wood, breaking feuds between petty lords, and fighting for causes that were sometimes righteous… and sometimes merely hungry. He was not born to greatness. If anything, the legend insists on the opposite—that greatness came to him only because he kept choosing the harder road when the easier one would have paid better.
It is said his many adventures blurred together in memory, but one endures above all: the tale of the blade that made a dynasty.
The versions differ, as all true legends do. Some say Mikolaj saved a dwarf from bandits on a moonless road; others claim the dwarf was trapped beneath a collapsed mine, or hunted by men who mistook him for a demon. A rarer telling insists the dwarf was not rescued at all, but challenged—that Mikolaj spared him in a duel neither could win, and earned respect the way steel earns a name.
Whatever the truth, the ending never changes: in gratitude for that act of chivalry, the dwarf-smith forged him a sword of enchanted silver, a blade that drank the last light of day and held it captive along its edge. It was called The Sword of the Dusk, and Naissus would come to know it not as a weapon, but as a symbol—proof that even a land ruled by bloodlines still had room, once, for a man who rose by deed.
By the time Mikolaj died—some say from old wounds, others from poison, and one bitter account from simple exhaustion—he had gathered what hedge-knights are not meant to gather: a small estate outside Orion’s Gate, sworn as a vassal holding beneath House Radzimirski. It was not a duchy. It was not even a county. But it was land, and a name, and a blade that could be inherited.
And so House Ztratt began not with a proclamation from a Prophet, but with something more fragile—and, perhaps, more dangerous: a story that people wanted to believe.
“At dusk, the world tells the truth. In daylight, men learn to lie.” — attributed to Sir Mikolaj Ztratt, spoken on the road to Orion’s Gate
Baron Aleksy Ztratt of Silvertooth (c. 142–171 AR)
By the middle of the second century after Orion, House Ztratt was still a name carried more by story than by stone. They possessed the Sword of the Dusk, an estate of modest worth near Orion’s Gate… and the uneasy truth that legends do not feed a household for long.
It was Aleksy Ztratt who understood that if a family wished to endure, it had to root itself somewhere hard enough that even history could not uproot it.
Around 150 AR, Aleksy led his kin westward into the marches of Eastgate—a frontier then rough, half-mapped, and ruled more by distance than decree. The land that would one day be called Duskhaven did not yet exist as a duchy; it was a seam between powers, a place where law traveled slowly and bandits traveled fast. There, Aleksy raised a village with his own hands and his own coin: palisade, granary, chapel, and the first low stone hall that would later be remembered—generously—as a keep.
He swore himself to House Jaroslaw, vassalage for protection, and protection for loyalty. The Jaroslaws were already a force of discipline and doctrine; to serve them was to survive under their shadow… and to be shaped by it. In time, Aleksy’s steadiness earned him a title that Ztratts had not worn before: Baron.
The village became known as Silvertooth, not for beauty but for bite. Men found silver in the earth, and where silver is found, a mine follows like a wound that refuses to close. The pit brought merchants, laborers, guards, and inevitably the kinds of men who arrive wherever coin pools in the dark. Aleksy learned to govern not just farmers, but miners; not just disputes, but desperation.
Yet Aleksy was not remembered only for what he dug from the ground. He also brushed against a realm that Naissus speaks of as if it were half dream: the Verdant Lands, the Green March beyond the border woods. The tales insist he rode there more than once—sometimes as envoy, sometimes as hunter, sometimes simply as a man chasing something he could not name. And always, in the versions that survive, there is the king’s daughter.
It is said Aleksy courted her—quietly, stubbornly, and for longer than prudence allowed. Some storytellers make it romance, others politics, and some claim it was neither: that he admired in her a freedom he would never possess. Whatever passed between them, no marriage came of it. No alliance was signed. Only the lingering rumor that a Ztratt baron once dared to lift his eyes toward a crown that was not Naissus’s… and was not punished for the attempt.
When Aleksy died, he left behind three things that mattered:
a village that could outlive him, a silver mine that could enrich his heirs, and a title that turned House Ztratt’s blood from low nobility into high.
It was not the birth of a Great House yet. But it was the first time the Ztratts stopped being only a legend… and became a power that could be measured.
“A story may open a door. But only stone keeps it open.” — Baron Aleksy Ztratt, recorded in the Silvertooth ledger, date uncertain
The Founding of Duskhaven (250 AR) — Elected by the People, Blessed by the Church
In 250 AR, the western marches of Eastgate ceased to be merely frontier and became something far more dangerous: a line that had to hold.
The chronicles record the year as an administrative act—borders redrawn, oaths exchanged, seals pressed into wax—but the truth was older and uglier. The Verdant Lands had begun to fail. What Naissus had once called the Green March—that half-mythic belt of fertility and pride—was being swallowed by a darkness that did not negotiate, did not tire, and did not care for noble pedigrees. Refugees came first in trickles, then in roads-full: farmers with empty hands, hunters with haunted eyes, children who no longer remembered what safety felt like.
It was then that the Church, ever alert to the theology of necessity, decreed the creation of a new holding: the Duchy of Duskhaven—a name that carried both purpose and warning. And the village that House Ztratt’s forebears had raised out of soil and silver—once called Silvertooth—was renamed Duskhaven, “the Haven at Dusk.” A frontier town, now placed on parchment as a bulwark.
But titles alone do not make rulers.
The Church could anoint a duke, yes—place holy sanction upon a brow and declare the matter settled. Yet the western marches had a stubborn spirit. These were not courtly lands where power trickled down from marble halls; this was hard country, where a lord could be lawful and still be dead by winter.
House Ztratt did what few houses ever manage in the same breath: they became chosen.
The records speak of the Church’s blessing—of a public proclamation and the formal elevation of House Ztratt into the ranks of the great. Yet the older stories, told in the taverns of Duskhaven and the mining camps beyond its walls, insist something else happened first: an assembly of townsfolk, foremen, captains, and farmers—men and women who had buried too many loved ones to care for distant bloodlines—who agreed, with grim unanimity, that Wojciech Ztratt would lead. Not because of ancient right, but because he was already there, already bleeding with them, already holding the roads when no one else came.
Thus, in the same year, House Ztratt became something unprecedented in Naissus: blessed by the Church… and affirmed by the people.
And so it was that for the first time, within Orion’s Bastion, the Ztratt shield was raised alongside the others—hung among banners that traced their legitimacy back to Orion’s own divisions of the realm. To some it was a correction of history; to others, an insult. To the Ztratts, it was a quiet statement: we were not given this—yet here we stand.
From that day onward, when the darkness pressed from the west and the remnants of the Verdant Lands cried for shelter, it was Duskhaven that opened its gates, and House Ztratt that held the line—not as conquerors, but as guardians of the desperate.
“A crown may be granted in prayer. A duchy is earned in mud.” — inscribed beneath the Ztratt banner upon its first hanging in Orion’s Bastion, 250 AR
Duke Waldemar Ztratt, “the Old Fox of Duskhaven”
(born 450 AR — 50 years old in 500 AR)
Waldemar Ztratt is the name sailors swear by and knights measure themselves against. In taverns from Night-harbor to Lublin, in chapels where old men still pray for the south to hold, he is spoken of as if he were not merely a duke, but a season of war given human form. Stoic, patient, and difficult to rattle, he is remembered as the Fox of Duskhaven—and in his old age, the Old Fox, a title even his rivals cannot say without a trace of respect.
But the legend that made him does not begin with a council or a coronation. It begins with a boy on a battlefield.
In 466 AR, when the armies of Eastgate and Night-harbor fell upon Duskhaven’s plains, Waldemar was only sixteen—too young, by any sane measure, to bear the weight of a duchy. His father, Duke Filip, rode to meet the invaders in open battle and fell amid the slaughter. The chronicles disagree on many details of that day, but all agree on the moment that followed: Waldemar went to his father’s body, tore the ancestral blade from the dead man’s hand, and charged.
It should have been suicide—one child rushing a line of hardened men. Yet something old and feral woke in the soldiers of Duskhaven when they saw him. The sight of their duke’s blood, the sight of a boy refusing to kneel, snapped fear like rotten rope. Men surged after him with a desperate chant that turned into a battle-cry: The Duke is dead—long live the Duke!
And the saying most often pinned to Waldemar’s mouth—half oath, half thunder—still circles Naissus like a stubborn hawk:
“A Ztratt still lives. The South does not kneel. We resist—until the last of us falls.”
That first charge did not win the war by itself. What it did was worse for his enemies: it proved that Duskhaven would not break quickly.
The victories that followed were not won by youthful fury, but by the fox-craft that would define him. Waldemar learned fast—faster than men twice his age. Where other dukes sought glory in clean lines and bright banners, Waldemar sought angles, timing, and terrain. He bled the invaders with harassing strikes, drew them into bad ground, and turned their hunger for a decisive battle into a weakness. By the third day of fighting, he had coaxed overconfidence into the open… and then shattered it with a counterstroke at dusk, driving the allied host from Duskhaven’s fields and forcing them into retreat.
Thus ended the heart of what later scribes would call the War of the Three Dukes (466–470 AR)—a war remembered in Eastgate for shame, in Night-harbor for bitter pragmatism, and in Duskhaven for a single truth: the south survives when it must, and pays for survival in blood.
Yet Waldemar’s legend grew not only from how he defeated his enemies, but from what he did after.
Not long after, when Eastgate faced the Nazhirite siege, it was Waldemar who marched northeast with an allied host to break it—alongside Boris Lipski of Lublin and Toomas Vang of Night-harbor, son of his former foe. The political irony would have amused lesser men. Waldemar treated it as necessity. Eastgate remembers that march. Eastgate remembers who came when their walls trembled.
In the present day, Waldemar is widely regarded as the most respected duke in Naissus—not because he is loved, but because he is trusted to do what must be done. There is no man Boris Lipski holds in higher esteem, even when the words used are coarse—“Waldemar, the old fox…” spoken with that strange mixture of insult and warmth soldiers reserve for the one commander they would still follow when hope is gone.
His alliances are equally well-known, and—by now—quietly feared. His sister’s marriage into Night-harbor bound old wounds shut with iron thread, and everyone in the duchies understands the simple arithmetic of it: to challenge Waldemar is to invite the answer of Duskhaven, Lublin, Night-harbor, and Eastgate together.
Waldemar’s house has never relied on ceremony to prove legitimacy. Even their most sacred heirloom is not a jeweled toy for parades, but a weapon meant for the work of survival: the silver-forged blade that marks their crest, carried by the Dyke of Duskhaven in peace and war—a reminder that monsters are not only men.
And if the Old Fox has any weakness, it is not fear of death. It is the private kind of pain that comes for even the greatest—buried not in speeches, but in silence, in the graves dug when victory costs fathers as well as soldiers.
Waldemar has three sons—Ladislaus, proud and sharp; Waclaw, watchful and severe; and Jakob, the youngest, restless as a blade not yet sheathed. They are the next line of Duskhaven, and the realm watches them with the same uneasy thought: a fox’s den does not stay empty for long.
House Hardrade
Seat: The Thunder-Hall
Coat of arms: A red fish-skeleton on a black night.
Family Heirloom: The Hardrade Axe
Current Dynastic Head: Duke Hrafn Hardrade, The Storm-Bringer of Narva.
Rollo Hardrade, First Duke of Narva ( 28BR – 32AR)
No great house in Naissus carries a stranger beginning than House Hardrade, for their roots lie not in the River’s Peace or the Prophet’s courts, but in salt, oar-song, and a past that refuses to be written down.
They were the Varangers—sea-people who came out of the vast western waters in longships, their homeland unknown even to the mainland’s oldest chroniclers. And because Varangers keep history in the mouth, not on parchment, the earliest years of their migration survive only as competing sagas: half memory, half boast, and all storm.
What is agreed upon—even by those who despise them—is the moment Orion first took them.
In the Varanger tongue, the Great Jarl is not crowned by blood alone. He is proven. Their oldest custom holds that when a man defeats the Great Jarl in single combat, he becomes the Great Jarl. It was by this custom—older than Naissus itself—that Orion stepped into their circle, met their mighty leader blade to blade, and cast him down. By Varanger right, Orion became their new Great Jarl.
It was a conquest, yes—but not the mainland sort, where banners change hands and peasants learn new taxes. Among Varangers, that duel was binding. It made Orion more than victor; it made him kin-bound authority, whether they wished it or not.
When the wars of liberation ended, the Varangers lingered in Naissus like a sharpened tool without a task—too proud to be absorbed, too dangerous to be dismissed. Then came the campaign against the Nazhirite’s upon the sea, and the seizure of the great island of Narva. Orion granted the island to the Varangers, not as charity, but as settlement: a shore to anchor them, and a frontier to bleed for.
And over them he raised one name above all others: Rollo Hardrade.
Rollo was made Duke of Narva because he was what Orion needed in those early years—an iron-backed warlord who understood raids, coastal war, and the ugly mathematics of holding ground that the sea can always take back. In the sagas he is described as a man built like a cliff-face, with a voice that carried like thunder across open water. He did not rule from marble halls. He ruled from the longhouse and the shore, with the law of the axe and the weight of reputation.
That axe became his house’s first icon. Even now, Varangers swear that Rollo’s family-axe drank deep in Orion’s wars—splitting shields, breaking lines, and turning enemies into driftwood. Yet the same sagas that praise his strength argue endlessly over a more dangerous question:
Did Rollo ever truly accept Orion’s divinity?
Mainland priests insist that the first Duke must have bowed, that no ducal title could stand without the star’s blessing. Varanger storytellers answer with laughter: a man may fight beneath a banner without praying at its altar. And so Rollo remains suspended between interpretations—saint to some, useful heretic to others, and in Narva’s own halls… simply the First.
But whatever he believed, his legacy is not debated:
He turned Narva from conquered rock into a Varanger homeland. He bound sea-clans into a duchy without breaking their teeth. And he taught the mainland its first enduring lesson about House Hardrade— that you may chain a storm to a purpose… but you will never make it kneel.
“I will not kneel to land. Give me a shore and an enemy, and I’ll give you a kingdom.” — attributed to Rollo Hardrade, The Salt-Sagas of Narva
Duke Eirik Hardrade, “the Old Crow” (100–187 AR)
In the early generations, Narva was still more camp than country—an island of longhouses and war-boards, where the sea decided who ate and who drowned. The Varangers had been given Narva as settlement, but old habits cling like salt to wool. They raided when they grew hungry, and they measured honor by what could be taken and carried home.
It was Eirik Hardrade who ended that age.
Born in 100 AR, Eirik came of a line still close enough to Rollo’s shadow that men expected him to be the same: an axe-first duke, a storm with a title. Instead, he proved something rarer among Varangers—patience. He was not softer than his forebears, only longer-sighted. Where Rollo had forged a homeland, Eirik meant to make it livable.
They called him the Old Crow, because he watched more than he spoke, because he seemed to know when blood was worth spilling and when it was simply wasted. Like a crow, he remembered slights; like a crow, he gathered what others overlooked; and like a crow, he endured when younger beasts fell.
Under Eirik’s rule, Narva began to shed the skin of a raiding host and grow the bones of a people.
It was during his long reign that the mines spread like veins across the island—shafts sunk into black stone, tunnels braced with timber, and men lowered into the earth to drag up wealth that did not need to be stolen. Emeralds were the prize most often sung of, but the ledgers speak of other ores as well—hard metals and glittering seams that turned Narva from a hungry shore into a duchy with coin in its fists.
With coin came changes the old jarls would have spat on. Fields were cleared. Stone terraces were raised where the soil allowed it. Fishing villages became towns. Storehouses replaced loot-piles. The Varangers did not become gentle—no saga claims such a lie—but they became rooted. And once a people roots, it fights differently: not for glory, but for home.
Eirik’s life itself became part of the island’s superstition. He lived to eighty-seven, an age so uncommon in those harsh centuries that even skeptics muttered prayers when he passed. Many on Narva believed he was blessed by the gods—both the old names of the Varangers and the new god of the mainland. Some said Ormvaldr had marked him; others whispered that Orion’s star watched him with a curious mercy. The most practical explanation—that a cautious duke avoided pointless wars—never satisfied a people who prefer miracles to moderation.
Yet Eirik did something even more extraordinary than living long: he crossed the sea not as raider, but as guest.
He visited Orion’s Bastion more than once—an act that earlier Varanger dukes would have treated as humiliation or trap. And in the most controversial moment of his reign, Eirik became the first Hardrade to accept baptism, allowing the Archbishop’s waters to touch his brow. The mainland called it enlightenment. Narva called it politics. Eirik called it nothing at all, and that silence only sharpened the arguments that followed.
Did he truly believe? Or did he simply understand that a duchy cannot forever live at odds with the faith that governs the continent?
Whatever the answer, the consequences were real. After Eirik, the Hardrades were no longer merely “Orion’s tamed sea-wolves.” They were a Great House with mines, fields, and treaties—still dangerous, still proud, but increasingly difficult to dismiss as barbarians.
And when Eirik finally died in 187 AR, the island mourned the way sailors mourn a lighthouse: not with soft words, but with the uneasy recognition that storms feel larger when the old marker is gone.
“Take from the earth, not from the weak. A raider grows old in regret—an islander grows old in wealth.” — Duke Eirik Hardrade, said to his jarls at the opening of the first emerald shaft
Duke Hrafn Hardrade, The Storm-Bringer of Narva
(born 458 AR – 42 years old in 500 AR)
Hrafn Hardrade was born with the sea in his lungs and war in his shoulders. Even as a youth he was spoken of as a throwback—too tall, too broad, too unquiet—like the blood of Rollo had risen again in full force. Among the Varangers of Narva, men looked at him and believed; they saw the old saga made flesh, a duke who could have stood on Orion’s deck and laughed at the storm.
Yet Hrafn’s strength carried a fault the island had not known in generations: he did not share the Old Crow’s patience, nor his reverence for what Narva had become. Where his forebears learned to live as islanders—miners, farmers, shipwrights—Hrafn hungered for the half-remembered truth behind their songs. The Varangers kept their past in mouths, not ink, and to Hrafn that absence was an itch that never stopped bleeding. If he could not know where they came from, then he would feel it—salt, fire, and fear on foreign coasts.
So he broke the Church’s law.
In defiance of Orion’s peace, Hrafn led a raiding fleet against the Nazhirite coastline—swift ships, night fires, steel taken with the old brutal efficiency his people once worshipped. Some called it justice, others called it pride, but all agreed it was Varanger in the oldest sense. And the sea, as it always does, answered.
The Nazhirites struck back—first chasing Hrafn’s raiders across the Emerald Sea, then turning their prows toward greater prey. Instead of grinding themselves against Narva’s rocks, they sailed for Eastgate and brought siege and ash to Jarosgrad’s shadow. In later councils, men would speak of that campaign as a warning: how one man’s glory can become another realm’s calamity. Even the southern dukes remembered that war as a moment when only a few answered the cry for aid—names spoken together like an oath: Boris Lipski, Waldemar of Duskhaven, and the man who would later rule Night Harbor.
Hrafn did not flee from the consequences of his own fire. While Eastgate burned, he did what Varangers do when cornered—he built ships. He raised new keels, called every oarsman who still trusted him, and threw Narva’s fleet into the Nazhirite supply lines. He did not win a clean victory that bards can sing without wincing; he won something harsher: space. Broken masts. Captured sails. Enough disruption in the sea-lanes that Waldemar and his allies could move with less steel snapping at their backs.
But saving a realm is not the same as being forgiven for endangering it.
After the siege, there was no formal punishment laid upon Hrafn—no excommunication, no stripping of title. The Church is slow to swing the hammer when it fears what the anvil might do in return. Yet diplomacy has softer knives. Doors closed. Invitations ceased. Treaties were signed with others first. Men smiled at Hrafn in halls, then stepped away as if his shadow smelled of smoke.
And so the current Duke of Narva stands as a contradiction carved in salt-stone: a man his people adore, a man the great houses watch with wary eyes. Too proud to beg pardon, too loyal to bow his head, and too dangerous to ignore—because everyone remembers what Narva can become when a Hardrade decides the old ways are not dead… only sleeping.
“We are not a tame people. We are the storm that learned to wear a crown.” — Hrafn Hardrade, said to an Eastgate envoy after the war