A Tale of Iron RP Background (wip)

The world is filled with stories and fables, songs of fire, epics of stone, and sagas of steel, yet perhaps none as intriguing as A Tale of Iron. Iron that strange base metal, not as heavy as lead, without the shine of gold or the gleam of stainless steel. Yet it is said in the lands of Styricum an Iron blade is as valuable as a crown of jewels, for it cuts through the shapeless wraiths of the northerners like so much hot butter. It has sat in the hand of undead kings, been paid as the price for the great crusades of the southlands. Yet to truly tell the tale of iron , one must tell the tale...of the world.

     It was a millenia and three centuries ago when the Spartoai, the common ancestors of the mannish kingdoms of the south arrived in Styricum in their triremes , sails as bright as the rainbow and bearing devices that the natives had never seen. They were refugees , fugitives almost , fleeing the great catastrophe that had befallen their homeland to the far south past the Ocean of Neptune. They were farmers , scholars , wizards , nobles , as well as men of the uncouth sort, thieves, killers, raiders and reavers. Knowing they would not survive to settle in this strange land divided, and so crowned their first king Alexius the First, under his noble leadership the Spartoai flourished in land they thought for a while uninhabited, founding their great city of World's End on the southernmost type of Styricum , and so the origin of the mannish kingdoms was lain.

     Yet far to the North of Stryicum, past the Crowfoot mountains, straddling the snowy black coast lay another far older realm of men unknown to the new arrivals. The Grimnir, a breed of men dark eyed and dark haired, tall, dour, slow to anger and slower to forgive, divided into their many kingdoms. For centuries before the Spartoai even set sail from their ancient home the Styricum had lived and died here as men.Building their great cliff citadels and erected massive stone temples to their grim-faced gods. Yet now they lay trapped in a murderous conflict , a scourge from across the deadly northern seas, the Khaz Khulan. Nefarious spirit wraiths bound to no physical forms, and utterly invincible to weapons of steel, sprang on the entirety of the north like a wildfire. Their dark magics, screaming war chariots and lumbering battle beasts laying waste to the north and stealing the priceless treasures of many a realm that now lay ruined. Armies were turned to corpse heaps and cities turned to pires at their very touch, and it seemed they were to be the final bane of the North. The Great Ending had come many a Ferundian cleric howled from slate gray pulpits, and now all the Ferundians could do is wait to meet their gods. All the North had fallen, except the last of its ancient kingdoms, Ferund. Yet here as the bale-eyed legions of the Khaz Khulan marched lockstep through the Skull and onto Ferund, the Spartoai re-enter our story. Now well established on the southern coast the Sons of Sparoai gathered their wisest mages and concocted a plan. To stop these ghastly invaders once and for all, even if it mean the doom of all Ferund. Pooling their mana in the darkest of rituals the High Magisters of the Spartoai cast one massive curse on all of Ferund that would define its existence forever more. A curse that lives in infamy in all corners of the world, a curse that would call the mountains of Ferundian dead...to rise.

    Held by the sway of this spell the dead of Ferund (including their legendary king Ulfast ) rose from the dead and fearing not for their lives sprang from their graves and took up the fight again. And to their surprise and great joy, the iron ceremonial blades they took from their graves were the bane of their spirit wraith tormentors. Wielding these weapons of anathema the dead went on a lightning quick campaign and soon the wraiths fled back across the sea lest they be torn to nothing with blades of cold iron. Though perturbed by an existence the dead-men rejoiced at their victory, seeing it as clear blessing from their gods of death. How wrong they were, for it seemed this spell once seen as a grim blessing that gave them back their kingdom was a curse after all. Man and women and even child began to fall to illness and madness, the living felled by a necrotic illness, the dead growing unhinged as their brains rotted in their skulls. And so it was that the kingdom of Ferund , once noble and mighty became the Realm of the Dead, a fell land where few enter and return alive.

Meanwhile to the south the realm of the Spartoai flourished and grew rich , never feeling the true suffering of those northerners they sacrificed. They had never cared for the Grimnir with their dour faces and their heathen gods. Or at the very least this is what they recited to be able to sleep when the sun went down. And in time the memory of this ancient time faded and the story shifted and morphed until it was gone all together, the sacrific of the Grimnir all but forgotten. Fireside tales of flesh-eating undead and bone-faced kings the last memory of their existence. Now the few sane undead sit alone in their gloomy halls, reading their great scrolls and tomes, committing themselves to art and scholarship and taking care of their sacred sites. Their minds kept stable by powerful magic and liquid alchemy. They are  relics of a past age lost from the memory of the world, eternal watchmen of the crypt-cities and tomb-towns of the Realm of Mort, eyes pointed north as they clutch swords of iron, standing silent vigil lest their invaders return. They alone guard all the world from such a fate, the other races of the world simply content to forget about them.

  And so Styricum sits in fragile peace for now, barred from the ghastly conquerors from the Far North who sit idle in their domed citadels ,worshiping their stolen wealth.Yet tension mounts in Styricum and all is unsure, a new epoch seems to be on the horizon,a  great storm after the long calm. And thus the Age of Iron is only beginning. (Also reg is the best)


Different Races: Yet despite what a human may foolishly believe, the history of Styricum is not solely the affair of the Spartoai and Ferundians. Other races big and small inhabit this world, though they may not be as numerous or as powerful, and their histories are not to be discounted.

 Chaggerrta Tribes: In the eastern steppe known as The Sea of Grass life moves in cycle, the twin seasons dry and wet, the rambling movements of the herds of the Chaggerta. All things happen again again, each moment but a predictable spoke on the Great Wheel. The seasons shift, the butterfly erupts from the caterpillar, a new phoenix bursts from the ashes of its predecessor. These concepts of renewal and rebirth are the cornerstones of faith for the nomadic people of the steppe, the four armed brightly hued folk known as the Chaggerta. Their migrations, ordained by their faith in the cycle and instinctual need for movement pass across near all of Styricum, from the snow-kissed mountain valleys of the north to  the arid savannah of the south. The ringing of bells and glow of colorful lanterns heralding the coming of one of their great wagon trains, which  set down so swift at the setting of the sun that by midnight it would seem a new town has appeared in the middle of the wilderness. Though they have weathered war before and are skilled in it the Chaggerta, in their ruler-less tribal confederation prefer peace greatly. For they gain a simple joy in selling their exotic wares and herbal remedies in exchange for steel and silk from the mannish kingdoms and precious gems from the Azhikal in the bloody desert. Not to mention war makes traversing lands much more difficult. At times bolder Chaggerta have even dared venture into the land of the undead to barter their eccentric tales, mind-bending mudras, and ancient scrolls for the knowledge of the ever-living folk. Then as always they pack up their tents and farms and wares and move elsewhere....after all , the cycle never ends.

Chaggerta society is defined by two key factors, the Herd and the Wheel. The Herd is the large communal unit a Chaggerta is born into, his/her main social unit for life, like the town or village a human would be born into. At the small end a Herd can consist of only a few hundred people made up of a few closely tied families who travel together. At the large end they can have a population of a few thousand and be split into multiple throngs or sub-herds. Loyalty to the Herd and Herd identity is a large part of Chaggerta culture as even though the people of the steppe value individuality and choice, they know that to survive on the harsh steppe the Herd must be strong. It is not easy after all, to feed all of those large bodies, and too much dissent can quickly lead to a Herd simply dying out all together. Luckily Chaggerta on the whole have an inborn communal instinct and tend to wish to stick together and cooperate anyway. Unfortunately this can sometimes mean that a Chaggerta won't speak out or disobey when the Herd wishes to commit some heinous action, fearing social reprisal or the worst punishment a Chaggerta can face..exile from the Herd.

The Second factor as mentioned before is The Wheel, the faith and social philosophy of the Chaggerta as a whole. Focused on a belief in reincarnation, enlightenment, and embodying the attributes of the Divine, most Chaggerta live and die by it's creed. Pushing them to sample all that they can in life many Chaggerta will go through a variety of 'spokes' within their lives, trying to gain the most knowledge possible to pass on to their next life. A blades-man may become a weaver, a weaver may become a carpenter, a carpenter may become a monk, and a monk may become a hunter. Within each profession a Chaggerta seeks excellence, trying their best to embody the patron divine of the occupation until they've learned all they can and must move on. Yet sometimes a Chaggerta finds that they are simply to connected to their current spoke, and do not wish to move on, and if they cannot move on they become casted. Though this state is seen as rather unideal for a Chaggerta, the experience a Caste member may have can be invaluable to the herd. For instance a monk who is casted becomes a Modi, and mentors others who seek enlightenment through the great knowledge she has accrued. Meanwhile a veteran bladesman who finds themselves too fond of war becomes a Kharash, a vanguard in times of war and a trainer in times of peace. So a Chaggerta can always find a way to serve the Herd even if they cannot make it to the next spoke.

    Characteristics: The Chaggerta are often tall and firm, with solid packed muscle and skin in hues of all shades of blue. The texture of said skin often quite smoother than that of a humans. Their hair comes in almost any shade imaginable from green to pure white, and they have small gold or white horns that sit atop their crown, the number and size varying from person to person. Then there's of course the obvious thing of the four arms with four fingered hands. Chaggerta dress efficient when on the move, often times wearing simple but comfortable garments of linen, fur or sheepskin leather. Yet when at the sedentary point of their travels they relax and dress as extravagantly as possible. Over their many travels more Chaggerta accrue at least one garment of extravagance and embellish these traits to the tee with tons of trinkets and accessories obtained over years of travel. Even a less worldly chaggerta may have a variety of carved wooden necklaces, or hand-crafted bracelets lined with bone beads, while a Chaggera of high status may rival a prince in terms of appearances.They are skilled shepherds, explorers, bards, hunters, clerics, healers, mystics and blades-men, ever ready for battle though they love peace more. For despite their peaceful nature they have little issue with ending lives when needed, after all death is only the next spoke on the wheel.


Azhkazil Clans:   Ever ignored when men of knowledge speak of the civilizations of the age (whether out of ignorance or hatred) the Bloody Desert is home to the Azhkazil. A humanoid yet insect-like race who live in their great burrow mound cities deep in the heat of the burning dunes.Once mighty lords over much of southern Styricum, the ruins of their ancient towers now either hidden in the wilderness or destroyed by zealous Spartoai. Their rivalry with the Sea Apes (as they used to call them) dated back to soon after the first Spartoai arrived in Styricum a millenia ago. Several bloody decades were spent battling the newcomers in crusade after crusade as the Spartoai attempted to destroy these 'insectoid heathen's and the Azhkazil strove to drive these invaders to the shore. A heavy toll was taken from the Azhkazil, their territory relegated to the harsh deserts and volcanic plains, dozens of their ancient towering citadels of crystal lost to the menfolk, a loss that would never be healed. Never would the Azhkazil regain the former glory that once had graced their folk , nor would any other race before the world came to its end.

 Yet with peace between the two races finally found they find work as middle men, traders, and pirates, passing on wares from one people to another, or raiding the very same caravans that pass through the desert. However despite their relegated status they are fiercely independent and prideful. Ever remembering the lost glory of the centuries past, the stories passed down from broodmother to larvae to bring stars of wonder to their compound eyes. It is said by the Spartoai that this is why they cannot shed tears, for they dry out their eyes as children to the sorrows of past ages. Nonetheless the walkers in the sand though faded in glory are not yet gone, and if any would forget it and seek to conquer their lands...they will find the dunes are much less empty at night. And that a burning ball from an Azhkazi jezzail hurts a lot more than the blade of a sword.

Azhkazil societies are massive mound cities often built underground or in towering spires of sandstone and mud brick, inhabited by one great hive that can number in the hundreds of thousands. Every member of the hive can trace themselves back to one of five or so brood mothers who birth literally every other inhabitant of the city, making the entire polity really one large extended family. Yet sometimes a hive has less brood mothers than it needs, or they have become infertile before they could birth another of their kind. And from this desperate need to survive comes the practice of brood-raiding. Determined for their hive city to go on the Azhkazil attack another colony, raid the great larvae chamber within and carry out hundred of unfinished larvae. If and when they make it back home they'll use a mixture of grotesque alchemy and natural pheromones to convert these larvae into members of their own hive. This is often the cause of quite a few hive wars within the desert, as rival hives will regularly attempt to raid each other or even assassinate each other's brood mothers to get an edge. On the whole this makes Azhkazil society a very cutthroat business where loyalty to the hive and utter ruthlessness to those not within is the only way to survive. This is a far cry from the Azhkazil of old, who were said to have ruled a massive empire that once covered the whole of the Bloody Desert.

   Characteristics: Azhkazil tend to be around the size of humans but a bit smaller, with skin tones ranging from light brown to a dark blue or green , their eyes are compounded and often come in shades of blue , yellow and purple. Their canine teeth are fangs and they have claw like fingers. Hair is often black and wiry, styled in tightly coiled braids that reach down to the shoulders. Antennae are thin and short and extend from right above the eyebrows. The most common type are lean and lithe, with slim frames powered by whipcord muscle and tough skin like a carapace, yet this is not universal. Broodmothers after all are massive creatures with a humanoid top half and massive insectoid lower end that walks on six legs. Not to mention any variety of specially-bred warriors. Regardless They are often limber and light on their feet with powerful muscular legs, a necessity when traveling the dunes beneath which many great beasts lurk. Their eyes see much better than a humans and though they do not have ears like humans they have a semblance of hearing from sensing vibrations in the air. Nor do they have any ability with magic at all , their bodies having a natural resistance to magic.

Yet there is one ability that offsets their lack of talent in magi, for all azhkazil are natural psionics, communicating their thoughts to each other through their antennae. This along with their semblance of hearing allows them to speak to other races. This ability to read the minds of others is mostly passive, and a normal Azhkazil cannot see far into the mind of others. However their natural abilities of the mind can be trained ,and there are those among them who are said to be capable of controlling the minds of others, molding the sands with their thoughts and lifting objects solely by force of will. A potent explanation for the ancient spires of crystal that rise from the deserts. These rumors often color the opinions of men ,it is common that in first dealings dialogue will be terse and haggling ignored out of fear that one's mind will be manipulated into a bad bargain.



The Spartoai:  Along the rich southern western coast of Styricum from the region known as the Bay of Bellal to the fertile heartlands of the continents western height lie the kingdoms of man, all of this known under the collective moniker Spartaeon. Descended from the Spartoai settlers who came to the land a millennia ago to escape a great catastrophe , their once united kingdom splintered during The War of Four Crowns six hundred years ago after the death of King Valerios II. Despite intermixing being fairly regular in each kingdom , this separation has caused the Spartoai to be split into four different 'Bloods' who dominate the south.

The Principality of Myrkos: Along the southeastern quarter of Spartoai lands , from the mouth of the river Kadmos to the border of the bloody desert the Saltbloods staked their claim.  Descendants of the clan of the second eldest son of Valerios , Alminaar the SilverSail. They grow taller leaner than their cousins to the west and north and their skin is like polished dark bronze. The Principality of Myrkos , still held by the Clan Silversail , has ruled this land in both prosperity and war for four hundred years. The four Sail Cities on the bay of Bellal allowing the realm this stability , Paramor , Alamis , Andalus , and Cetesphon. Each city is a wonder in it's own right , teeming with riches both material and cultural , from the glowing treasuries of Alamis to the learned Wizard sects of Cetesphon. Yet foreigners would be wise to watch their pockets during trips to this region , as it is home to The Thousand Hands , thieves and scoundrels of the highest order.

 Regardless of these criminal nuisances the Blood of The Salt have much to be proud of and some believe they will be the clan to finally unite the Spartoai under one banner. At the very least they rule the seas as their name would imply , the hands of every Saltblood are said to be 'tough as a barnacle, clever as a sea-snake' and built for the sail. The deeds of their Admiral Prince Umair already becoming the stuff of legend despite his young age. And who knows as they say in the galleys of Galwan , from the tossing waves may yet come victory!

The Nikaec Order: The rich green heartlands , temperate woods , and snow capped mountains lying in the central quarter of Spartaeon belong to the Firebloods. Foremost servants of The Snake in The Sun and doers of his will on Earth. Centered around their capitol fortress city of Sword's Rest (named so because it was built upon the field where the treaty of Four Kings was ratified) the Firebloods grow strong and proud, fed well of the rich fields and orchards of their lands. Firebloods hold the greatest resemblance to the ancient Spartoai of old, with olive or copper skin , auburn and brown curly hair and glowing hazel eyes. They are not as tall as their Saltblood cousins but they tend to grow broader and with more muscle , growing large off work on the farm instead of lean on the deck of a ship.

   However the trait most noticeable about the Sons of Fire (as they like to call themselves) is their piety. It is rare to find a fireblood not wearing a Serpent's Sigil or Sunband even in these doubtful times. Although some would say this is more out of fear than any real faith. For you see, unique among the realms of man the fireblood lands are not ruled by some kingly dynasty or oligarchic council but by the order of Nikaeon. Founded by the childless prince Nikaeon (who was infertile and could produce no heirs) the holy order of the Snake in The Sun rule as stewards over the land. Their will enforced by an army of Justicars, and Sunsworn, the crusading paladins created by the holy order to carry out their will. The Order is ruled by a Grandmaster, a great warrior and monk skilled in both pursuits scholarly and martial. It was the first grandmaster who ordered the second and greatest crusade against the Azkhazil in the days of old ,destroying the Mound Hives of Makaz and Hekhal. Now the time when the faithful will be called again seems as though it inches closer and closer with every passing day, and the disciples of the serpent have readied their fangs.


The Kingdom of Asteria: Four hundred years ago , the grand kingdom of Spartaeon splintered for the first time since it's founding in the Time of Yore , splintered by the four children of Valerios the Second. Heraklion Starcrowned, first born son and sire to the Blood of Sky gained the most from this war. Though he held not the navy of Alminaar nor commanded the fervent zealot warriors of Nikaeon, nor even the vast silver mines of Serapis, Heraklion held one advantages his mind. As firstborns often are he was the focus of his father's attention above all the others and Valerios poured all of his knowledge to him, of war, of statecraft, and of the arts of magic. A natural warlord who took to battle like a fish to water, his well drilled elite troops many a time came close to securing the Ivory throne for himself, yet it was not to be. And though his new kingdom would come to claim vast swaths of Spartaeon and even expand outside it's borders , he never grew content in peace. As he lay on his deathbed, ripely old at the vast age of 202 (his life span long enhanced by magic), he bade his son make a vow, and for his son's son's to make a vow, to ever struggle to unite Spartaeon beneath their feet, and to bring the kingdom of his father back to life.

For five and two lifetimes of men the warrior kings of Asteria have struggled to regain the glory of their forefathers , and some would say they have achieved it. For their lands stretch all the way to the serpent's fang mountains in the west, and the tongue of Spartaic is spoken all the ways to the border of the Wilderland. Now with the winds of change beginning to blow across the land, all eyes turn to World's End, for who knows perhaps finally their vow may be fulfilled.

The Zendari Republic: The youngest son of Valerios , Serapis grew to manhood in the decade long chaos that was the War of Four Crowns , initially seized by the king's vizier as a figurehead for his own regime. Serapis was treated as nothing but a puppet for much of his adolescence, yet as he grew beneath the thumb of the treacherous vizier Kassius, he grew clever and wise beyond his years. His tongue became silver from days flattering and appraising his 'beloved vizier' and his mind sharp from years playing little games of intrigue within his thorn patch of a 'court'. By the time he was eighteen had arrayed the servants and retainers of Kassius against him right under his nose. In a spectacular lightning coup in the dead of the night Serapis finally took true control of his kingdom and went on to orchestrate the Treaty of The Four Crowns near single-handed.

   Now only in his twenty-second year and in firm control of his own kingdom on the northeastern quarter of old Spartaeon, Serapis as always committed to doing the unexpected. Realizing that the role of king bored him greatly he called council at his capital in Highroost , and proposed a new form of government, Dimokratia or republic in the common tongue. His keen eye picked out the best representatives for his people , the most loyal and trustworthy of his lords to represent the rich , and most respected and educated of the common folk to represent the people. In this way the greed of the rich would never outpace the competence of the people, and in so doing would allow both to stay in balance. With his new republic established Serapis became the first ever Grand Consular of the council , and proceeded over the assembly with wisdom and cunning. He turned back the advance of the Silver Khan from the east, and the Azhkazil incursions from the south. And kept the peace between the four kingdoms even when it seemed likely to shatter. By the time of his death at  the grand old age of 207 the republic was stable, wealthy and strong enough to survive the challenges that would face it after his death.

In life Serapis was known for his razor sharp mind, sterling silver tongue, and ice filled veins that allowed him to weave through obstacles whether mental or physical with all the speed and grace of a winter wind. From this his people get their name, the Coldbloods, known for their scheming minds and intrigue filled courts, not to mention the often chilly border lands their republic lies on. Despite their wealth they are often treated with a level of frigid disdain by their cousins who see them as 'dishonorable' and 'deceptive'. The Coldbloods simply laugh, smile and put a drop of viper venom in their tea. Honor is predictable, expected, they'll take victory over that anyday.