Nestled on the western shores of Goranth Bay, between Brennan’s Keep to it’s south, and the shadowed sprawl of the ancient Even Forest of Gearagh to it’s north, Illyria bore the scars of its turbulent birth. It was a realm where past and present collided in uneasy accord.
When magic began reshaping Brennan decades ago, its placid streets burst into a cacophony of progress. Magical carriages slide through cobbled alleys. Forges spewed smoke into a tangled sky. Craftsmen toiled over contraptions that clicked and whirred like clockwork beasts. For some, this was marvel, proof of boundless potential. For others, it was a sign of something unnatural.
“I’ll not have my children raised in a city where men play gods!” Robert Dormer had roared during one heated council meeting in Brennan’s Keep. His voice had carried through the chamber like thunder, silencing even the most vocal proponents of innovation. “We’ve forgotten ourselves, forgotten what it means to live by the sweat of our brows and the grace of the earth!”
By the time Robert stormed out of the hall that day, dozens had pledged to follow him northward. These were traditionalists, farmers, and smiths who felt alienated by Brennan's rapid changes. Motivated by fear of losing their way of life and concern for their families' future in a city they no longer recognized, they chose to seek new beginnings under Robert's leadership.
Their journey was arduous. Wagons, laden with meager possessions, creaked under their weight. They trundled through narrow mountain passes and across wind-swept plains. Children huddled beneath threadbare blankets, while their parents walked beside them—faces lined with both determination and exhaustion.
It was Robert who first brokered peace with the Elves of Gearagh, driven primarily by the urgent need to secure safety and food for his people. Though not out of warmth, his action stemmed from recognizing that compromise with the Elves was essential for his followers' survival, even as tensions simmered beneath the alliance.
“You ask much,” said Thariel Leafshade, her voice cold as winter frost. She stood before Robert in a clearing at the forest’s edge, her silver hair catching dappled sunlight like strands of moonlight woven into silk. “These lands are sacred to my people.”
Robert inclined his head but did not lower his gaze, a subtle act of defiance that did not go unnoticed by Thariel’s warriors standing silently behind her. “We seek only what we need to survive,” he said evenly. “Fields to sow. Water to drink.”
“And when your needs grow?” Thariel pressed, stepping closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose. Her tone, now soft but no less dangerous, betrayed the Elves' deep-rooted distrust after generations of betrayal by outsiders, as well as her own devotion to protecting her people's legacy.
For a moment, Robert said nothing. Then he extended his hand, not in submission but in solemn promise. “Then we shall honor this treaty as if it were written in blood.” And thus the city of Coinighy was born.
For years, they did. Coinighy soon grew into a bustling town, surrounded by fertile farmland. During harvest season, fields stretched toward the horizon like a golden sea. Yet prosperity bred greed. Greed, in turn, bred conflict.
It began with whispers. Farmers cut trees just beyond agreed borders. Hunters ventured deeper into Gearagh than they admitted aloud. Elven scouts discovered these transgressions. Their outrage was swift.
“They think us weak,” spat Caelion Dawnstrike as he paced before an assembly deep within Gearagh’s heartwood sanctuary. His hand rested on the hilt of an ornate blade etched with runes that glowed faintly under torchlight. “They believe we will stand idly by while they desecrate what is ours.”
Thariel raised a hand for silence but did not immediately speak. Her gaze was distant, as if she could already see the bloodshed to come, and when she finally spoke, her voice was heavy with sorrow.
“Then we will remind them,” she said quietly.
The fields ran red within weeks. Neither side truly desired escalation, yet both seemed powerless to prevent it. Villages near Coinighy fortified their perimeters. Elven war-bands struck with swift, silent precision under the cover of night.
When Coinighy retaliated, it did so without mercy.
“Burn it all,” ordered Captain Aldred Hayes during one grim campaign into contested territory. His men hesitated only briefly before setting torches to homes abandoned by fleeing Elves.
Though another treaty eventually quelled open hostilities, the scars remained raw on both sides for now. Trade between humans and Elves dwindled into furtive exchanges conducted under veils of suspicion.
Amid this chaos, opportunists emerged. Bandits preyed on isolated farmsteads. Slavers waited along poorly patrolled roads, ready to abduct unwary travelers. Mercenaries offered protection, though few could afford their prices.
Desperate to restore order and fearing Coinighy’s collapse would invite invasion from neighboring realms, Robert Dormer III sent envoys southward. They bore letters sealed with his family crest: an oak tree encircled by stars.
King Justin O’Malley received them in Goranth’s Hall of Shields, a grand chamber whose walls bore tapestries depicting centuries-old victories alongside more recent triumphs over rebellious lords.
“Illyria is not just your problem,” Robert’s letter read aloud by one envoy, while Justin reclined lazily upon his throne carved from blackened oak. “Its stability ensures yours.”
The king chuckled dryly after hearing those words, but waved away his advisors’ protests when they urged him not to involve Goranth further in northern affairs. He weighed the risks to his own realm against the potential benefits of stability in the north.
“Perhaps,” Justin mused aloud later that evening while speaking privately with his son Simon O’Malley over goblets brimming with wine gifted by Dormer himself.