The Kingdom of Goranth stands as the preeminent power in the known world, its throne occupied by Simon O'Malley, a ruler whose exploits against dark forces earned him the epithet "Demonsbane."
The title carried weight, whispered with reverence in taverns and noble courts alike. Stories of Simon’s triumphs spread swiftly, each retelling more embellished. Children clutched blankets tighter, hearing how he faced the Abyssal Wyrm beneath the shattered cliffs of Ardholm, its scales midnight black and eyes burning with hatred. Merchants told of his campaign in the Shadowed Wastes, where he led a vanguard into darkness itself to banish soul-hungry specters. But to those who fought beside him, what lingered was the man himself.
“He didn’t just stand there barking orders,” grumbled Old Garrick, a retired soldier nursing his ale in a corner of The Iron Tankard. His gnarled hands traced the rim of his mug as if trying to summon the memory. “No, Simon was in the thick of it, blade flashing like silver fire. You could see it in his eyes: he’d already decided that he’d bleed before any one of us did.”
A younger man leaned forward, awestruck. “Is it true what they say? That his sword drank demon blood and glowed red by the end?”
Garrick chuckled, shaking his head. “Lad, swords don’t drink blood. But aye, it glowed, though not from magic or some nonsense. It was just hot from cutting down so many damned things.”
Simon O'Malley’s legend was built not on pomp or pageantry, but on deeds that left scars, on both flesh and memory. To understand how such a figure came to power, one must look further back into the origins of Goranth itself.
Goranth’s origins, centuries earlier, lie in blood and alliance.
Centuries ago, when kingdoms were mere city-states vying for supremacy, Breakaway made its move. Its banners, deep crimson with a golden sunburst, marched forward. The armies advanced with grim determination and endless steel on Goranth’s borders. The siege began on a moonless night, fires licking at outer villages as peasants fled toward the capital.
In the throne room of Goranth’s ancestral keep, a far cry from today’s polished grandeur, the council gathered around a long oak table scarred by years of debate and war planning. King Eamon of Goranth stood at its head, his face pale but resolute beneath a crown that seemed too heavy for him in that moment.
“They’ll break through within weeks,” said Lira Ainsley, Goranth’s spymaster, her voice sharp as a dagger. She leaned over the table, pointing to a map strewn with markers representing Breakaway’s advancing forces. “Their siege engines are unmatched. We need reinforcements.”
Eamon rubbed his temples. “Reinforcements? From where? Our allies are either too far or too weak.”
A silence fell over the room until General Rhys Brennan spoke up. He was a tall man with weathered features and a presence that commanded attention. “My lord,” he said slowly, each word deliberate, “Brennans Keep is not so far. My kin would answer the call if we asked.”
Lira raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Brennans Keep has kept to itself for decades. What makes you so sure they’ll join us now?”
Rhys met her gaze without flinching. “Because I’ll make them see reason.”
---
The tide turned when Brennans Keep committed its forces to Goranth’s defense, crushing Breakaway’s ambitions.
Brennans Keep’s arrival was heralded by horns echoing across the valley. Their ranks were disciplined, shields gleaming and banners, a silver wolf on deep green, snapping in the wind. At their head rode Rhys Brennan, armor polished to a mirror shine, scored by battle scars with stories of their own.
“You came,” Eamon said quietly when he met Rhys at the gates of Goranth’s capital.
Rhys dismounted with ease and clasped Eamon’s forearm in a warrior’s greeting. “I gave my word,” he replied simply.
Together, their forces took the battlefield outside Goranth’s walls. The clash was ferocious, swords struck shields, arrows rained. Breakaway fought ruthlessly but found themselves outmaneuvered by Rhys’ tactical skill. The final blow came with Brennans Keep’s cavalry sweeping through Breakaway’s flanks.
When the dust settled, Breakaway’s banners lay trampled in the mud, and their general knelt before Eamon in surrender.
From this victory emerged the nascent Kingdom of Goranth, laying the foundation for an era marked by both unity and challenge.
The aftermath was celebration and reckoning. Fires burned high as soldiers toasted survival with whatever ale they found. Yet in the council chamber, talks began about what came next.
“We can’t let this happen again,” Eamon said firmly, standing before his gathered advisors and Rhys Brennan himself.
“And it won’t,” Rhys replied evenly. “Not if we stand together.”
It was Rhys who proposed unification, not as conquerors but as partners bound by mutual respect and necessity. The terms were hammered out over weeks of negotiation until at last an accord was reached: Goranth and Brennans Keep would merge into one kingdom under Eamon's rule, while Breakaway would remain intact but subjugated as a tributary state.
The young realm gained lasting stability when Fergus O’Malley wed Fiadh Brennan, uniting two great houses and securing the kingdom’s foundation.
Much later, when both kingdoms had begun to heal from the scars of war, another alliance cemented their unity, not through politics alone but through love.
Fergus O’Malley was not yet king but already showed signs of greatness: quick-witted, charming, and fiercely loyal to his people. Fiadh Brennan was equally formidable, a woman whose beauty was matched only by her sharp intellect and unshakable courage.
Their first meeting took place during a midsummer festival hosted in Brennans Keep. Fergus spotted Fiadh across a sea of revelers and made his way toward her with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.
“You must be Lady Fiadh,” he said with a grin that could disarm even the most guarded heart.
She arched an eyebrow at him, unimpressed at first glance but intrigued nonetheless. “And you must be Fergus, the prince who thinks he can charm his way through anything.”
He laughed, a warm sound that softened her initial resistance. “Not everything,” he admitted, “but I thought I’d start with you.”
Their courtship was marked by spirited debates as much as stolen glances under moonlit skies. By the time they stood before an altar to exchange vows, their union represented more than just two people; it symbolized hope for a kingdom forged from bloodshed yet rooted in possibility.
And so began the legacy of House O’Malley-Brennan: rulers born not only from conquest but from connection, both political and personal, and destined to shape Goranth into what it would become under Simon Demonsbane generations later: a beacon amid darkness. As the centuries passed, the kingdom’s structure continued to evolve, leading us to the present configuration of Goranth and its duchies.
There are currently three Duchies:
The Duchy of Brennans Keep
No duchy holds a more ancient lineage than Brennan Keep. Its current lord, the silver-haired Duke Armand Brennan, serves as King Simon's most trusted counsel, a role he has known since the days when he stood as Chancellor beside the throne of the late Justin O'Malley, father to the present sovereign.
The Duchy of Breakaway
Following its failed invasion of Goranth, Breakaway found itself incorporated into the kingdom as a separate Duchy, a political arrangement presented as magnanimity but serving as a permanent reminder of its military defeat.
The Duchy of Illyria
Carved from the former city-state bearing the same name, the Duchy of Illyria stands as the youngest addition to King Simon's realm. Its territories stretch northward beyond Goranth and Brennans Keep, with the ancient Even forest of Gearagh marking its eastern boundary. From the spires of its capital Coinighy, ducal banners still fresh with dye catch the northern winds.
Travelers seeking rest in these borderlands often find themselves drawn to the Innland Inn, whose weathered sign creaks welcome at the duchy's northern reaches.