History Of Scy'kadia

OOC note: This timeline is what the average mortal in Scy'kadia recognizes as an honest but simple history. Though told from a human perspective, the longer-lived species (such as elves and dwarves) are extremely insular, and it is debatable whether they truly know much more beyond their own rarely-changing realms and personal concerns. The dates are recorded under BF (Before Founding) and MR (by Mureth's Reckoning).

## Foreword

Born to the folk of humanity, I freely admit to a certain bias, not to mention several gaping
chasms within my vast field of knowledge! For you see, the reclusive and oft
hostile nature of our inhuman neighbors tends to breed disinterest or outright
contempt in the minds of human scholars. Thus, the accumulation of detailed and
factual accounts, as pertains to them, can be sadly… vexing. In conclusion, please
don’t assume the following rambles to be “all there is” of our fair Scy’kadia’s
epic and nuanced tale. These are but learned assumptions, told from a decidedly
human perspective.

Alas, alas, alas…

Warmest regards, Ged (exiled Murethi historian, Gederan Jo'vurst)

## The Time Of Teeth And Talons (Unknown - 2313BF)

In the beginning...
all mortals were as beasts, driven by survival and base desire. In time, the
worship of primitive spirits gave birth to language and community, but little
more. For at such time civilization was unattainable, beset by savagery.

Into this wild age strode the Weftyril, of whom next-to-nothing is now known.
These strangers, already advanced far beyond the dreams of modern minds, came
from a place outside of Geth. They sought the secrets of our world, wishing to
bind them in chains of power and possibility. Thus was Magic first discovered and unveiled
across Scy’kadia.

Through arcane
experimentation the Weftyril forged an empire. Yet, in so doing, they planted
the seeds of disaster. Their dabbling allowed Magic, Geth’s very soul, to
develop awareness. Captivity drove Magic mad; impossibly vast thoughts splintered into shards of vengeful ambition. We know these manifest
fragments of pain as demons.

An infernal tide
took form, rippling out from the empire, consuming all in its path.
Wonder turned to horror, and the mortal species fled into hiding, desperately grasping for each precious moment of safety.

The Weftyril beheld what they had wrought, and were aggrieved. They began the
greatest ritual ever attempted. A new plane of reality was fashioned, a
shadow realm in which the demons would be imprisoned, unable to sate their
endless lust for chaos and destruction. This realm would be called
Ruin.

As the ritual
reached a crescendo, the Weftyril themselves were cast into Ruin along with
most of their empire, utterly destroyed. Silence and broken towers were all
that remained of the godlike people. Did they know the price they would pay? Did they sacrifice themselves for those of us who follow?

Who can say?

## The Time Of Waking Gods (2312BF - 2200BF)

As the dust of
self-annihilation settled, mortals emerged from hiding, wary of what they
would find. Their fear was warranted, for the ritual of Ruin had been left
incomplete. Packs of demons still roamed Scy’kadia. All who crossed their path
were devoured, their souls fed to Ruin. Mortal cries stained the winds.

Two
curiosities gave answer.

First, ten mighty
spirits took form. Long had mortals prayed to them in ignorance and thus did
they come to defend their venerators. Those great entities, we now revere as The Greater Gods.

Second, having reclaimed its sanity, Magic sought beings through which to channel its desire for
healing and equilibrium. It chose the elves. In dreams and visions,
elf seers learned much of art and many worldly secrets. They came to know Magic by a new
name. Taeyaloo. The voice of Geth.

With unbound
Magic and the Gods beside them, mortals pushed back, herding the demonic swarms into Ruin. Learning of the souls already stolen, the Gods ventured deep into the prison realm, fighting to rescue their lost followers.
Alas, against the seething hellish throng, they knew their power would not be
enough. One fledgling deity was devoured and another forever crippled, forcing their comrades to retreat.

Refusing to abandon hope, the Gods undertook a final gambit for the sake of mortal kind. They fashioned eight ethereal realms, each aligned to its divine creator, each a
paradise, antithetical to the desecration of Ruin. To these holy domains, the souls of worthy acolytes could ascend upon their earthly demise. Such
was the plan. Utterly spent by their labors, the Gods retired to their Divine Holds…

… leaving Scy’kadia to the guardianship of the elves.

## The Time Of Elfdom (2199BF - 1422BF)

Unopposed in glory, the elves spread far and wide, shaping a new arcane empire. Unlike the Weftyril, the elves aimed not to control Magic, but to entreat and steer it. Thus was High Spellcraft devised, a reliable, abiding, and mostly benevolent discipline.

Through its use
the elves built many wonders… floating towers, cities that merged with nature, living sculptures, charms of incredible potency…

As their supremacy over neighboring species grew, so too did their arrogance. They cared not for non-elven affairs. So it was that the orcs began to gather, their shamans guided by The Narga; nine demon lords newly risen from the roiling madness of Ruin.

The elves knew naught of their peril.

## The Time Of Bloody Tears (1421BF - 965BF)

Orcish legions boiled forth. Sheer numbers and demonically-taught malfeasance overwhelmed the elves, smashing their empire to pieces. One-by-one the sky towers fell. Hidden cities were uprooted and put to the torch. It seemed nothing could halt the eradication of Magic’s chosen people.

Enter humanity.

Guided
by the now distant Gods, humanity stood before elfdom and its doom. The human tribes matched the orcs in population, and at last the elves won a reprieve. Harrowing spells were unleashed upon the orcs, stripping them of their ruinous boons.

The orcish tide crumbled. In the face of defeat, infighting grew rife. The many surviving hordes ravaged each other, before scattering to the far corners of Scy’kadia. The largest wave fled into the Thunder Peaks, crashing down upon the isolated dwarven kingdoms. Bloodshed ensued beneath the mountains. Alas, both humans and elves had been wearied by war. They did not pursue, nor lend aid to the bearded folk.

It was a time of deep sorrow. Lives lost, glory shattered, enmity born.

Worse was yet to come.

## The Time Of Embers (964BF - 587BF)

Having awaited the breaking of the Narga’s mortal armies, the dragons chose this time to emerge. Soaring from the Isle Of Sulphur, they descended on the weakened biped-folk like flaming nightmares made flesh.

Clinging to the scraps of their decimated homes, the elves put their trust in humanity. Scores of human heroes were gifted with magically-imbued tools of war. Others were taught arcane secrets, elevating them from crude dabblers to adepts of complex wizardry. Little did they suspect how swiftly human egotism would see their efforts perverted. Nor did the elves offer succor to the dwarves, perceiving their lack of involvement in the last war as a grave insult. In years to come this decision would prove a deadly sore point between the two proud cultures.

The human mages proved adroit students. Their short life spans begat an urgency and cognitive appetite well in excess of their teachers. Yet they could not rival elf subtlety. Their craft was clumsy and fraught with risk. They longed for control of Magic, not partnership, craving power without thought for consequence. Despite these initial warning signs, magically bolstered humans razed the lairs of many dragons, convincing the reptilian monsters that their time of dominance had not yet come to pass. The dragons vanished, returning to their poisonous isle or consigning themselves to concealed dormancy.

As the draconic threat broodingly subsided, the elves noticed rivalries forming amongst the victorious humans. Sparks of animosity turned to blazes of conflict, fueled by overconfidence and sorcerous bravado. Too late, the elves saw their error. They had made humanity too powerful. Predicting imminent tragedy, the elves faded into seclusion…

… abandoning their students to degeneration.

## The Time Of Mage Blight (586BF - 0MR)

Humanity imploded. Selfish wizard kings climbed from the masses to subjugate their mundane kin, driving the tribes into generation-spanning feuds wherein petty grudges were settled all-too-often by earth shattering sorcery. Reckless and foolhardy mages made matters worse by raising armies of orcs and monsters, promising plunder in exchange for tenuous loyalty. They dabbled in necromancy and other forms of diabolism, conjuring plagues, unnatural weather, and demonic assassins. For the common folk, the outcome of these quarrels was always the same. Suffering, slavery, death.

The greediest or most insane spellcasters swore pacts with the Narga, eager to surpass their rivals, even if it meant furnishing the nine hells with innocent souls. For the downtrodden multitudes, this was the final straw. Orders devoted to the eradication of magecraft formed. Several Gods lent assistance to the fledgling wizard hunters, judging their quest an unfortunate necessity. Thus the wizard kings found themselves assailed, not by rivals, but by those who
once served them. Some no-doubt escaped the ensuing purges, forming secretive cabals and reclusive realms. None-the-less, through sacrifice and divine faith humanity freed itself from the yoke of open magical oppression. To prevent a resurgence of such terrible rulers, records of the wizard kings were gathered and burned. Nowadays, the exact truth of their reign is unknown, shrouded in myth and told as cautionary fables. Likewise, though wreckage remains, much knowledge of their kingdoms is lost.

Let none forget that the dwarves played a pivotal role in this time. Sickened by centuries of arcane havoc, they took it upon themselves to pluck Magic from the world. With the help of Fundun, their most esteemed God, they joined runic binding techniques to bygone Weftyril machines. The result? A thaumatic siphon anchored in the Ruin. The Vortex, as they named it, could not trap Magic entirely, yet its constant draining presence forbade the permanency of spells. Ancient wards began to unravel, charms designed to last millennia were stripped to mere centuries, even decades, of life.

Magic is weakened. Its energies bleed into Ruin. The eternal rituals of yore are no longer possible, nor will they be again.

This, the elves will never forgive.

## The Time Of Founding (1MR - 473MR)

Freed from the tyranny of warlock overlords, humans set to nation building. With Magic's diminishment, diplomacy and technological advancement trickled to the fore. Realms sprang up, only to tumble down, victims of hubris or misfortune… until two steadfast societies scaled the heap, each a claimant for the total governance of half of mainland Scy'kadia. Arkhos and Thaedia.

As the reformation of humanity took place, inhuman tempers, long left to simmer, boiled over. Elves clashed with dwarves over slights real, imagined, and falsely laid. Below the Thunder Peaks, many of the bearded folk's perpetually besieged holds were overrun by orcs and fouler beasts, forcing them from their homes. The elf species was sundered in twain, as it came to light that sects had turned from Taeyaloo in favor of hexcraft. The newly named high elves exiled their fallen elf kin, but much damage had already been done to their woodland capital. Such are the reasons why elves and dwarves refer to this period as The Time Of Betrayal.

Unaffected by the strife befalling elves and dwarves, Arkhos and Thaedia thrived. All who stood against them were swept aside, crushed underfoot, and absorbed. Coming face-to-face at last, the two behemoths prepared for jealous and devastating war. Unbeknownst to them, a third claimant had appeared in the east. A menacing rival to their knightly battalions and legion cohorts, bent to the ideal of accumulating not just land and power... but life everlasting.

The Pharidae Union.

## The Time Of Warring Giants (474MR - 594MR)

Ignored at-first by the wider world, the Pharidae marched an undead host out of the Bone Dust Desert, enslaving all in their path. At the head of this unholy mass rode Tomb Prince Kalomesch, a surviving wizard king, his incredible necromantic will bent toward the oppression of all mortals.

United by mutual abhorrence, Arkhos and Thaedia threw themselves at the invaders. The war that followed was protracted and treacherous. It engulfed regions surrounding The Weft, then spilled outwards. Smaller realms were dragged into the fray, only to be torn apart or forever scarred. Exotic spells rent the battlefields, animating the slain, transforming the land.

Against all odds, and after more than a century of ceaseless horror, it was the living who achieved victory. Yet the cost was unspeakable. In defying their accursed foe, Arkhos and Thaedia were bled
dry. The survivors turned homeward, too worn to consider subjugating the lands they had warred upon.

In the wake of the withdrawal, lesser nations saw their chance to seize grandeur. As rats betwixt the toes of wounded giants, they advanced with caution, unwilling to risk open conflict, fearful of the still-ample wrath their battered neighbors could summon. A tenuous peace ensued.

Thus were the modern realms brought to be.

## The Time Of Uncertainty (595MR - 653MR)

This is where we
find ourselves. The here and the now. Arkhos and Thaedia work to regain their lost strength, as others grow in their shadow. Of these potential usurpers, Frael, Vylkland, Mureth, and Lo’Quai stand tallest.

Nor are the inhuman realms idle. For the first time in a millennia elves venture forth in numbers, as do the isolationist dwarves. Orcs rally to their banners of infernal conquest and the dragons stir in fiery slumber. Even the less populous species, they who move unremarked among us, heed the call to make their mark upon history. Stranger still, visitors claiming origin beyond the seas arrive in drips-and-drabs, bringing more doubts than answers.

What causes this tumult?

Oracles whisper that gold and glory await in The Weft. Relics have begun to surface. Tools left by the Gods in the first great war, weapons abandoned by the demons in their flight, items of immeasurable power from each phase of antiquity. Power enough to immortalize their bearers, to bring wealth beyond measure, to quell any opponent. Prophecies increasingly deem The Weft as their point of culmination, guiding the fated into spell-haunted catacombs, while treasure hunters and daredevil scholars trail in their wake.

Representatives of every species, nation, and creed flock to the region. Frontier towns and makeshift forts spring up like weeds along the border, attracting all manner of rogues, pilgrims, mercenaries, would-be-heroes, and of course, monsters. Yet there is one detail that troubles the onrushing travellers…

... the Weftyril portals are starting to open.

What this means, none yet know, but whatever comes will surely change the face of Scy’kadia. This is a time of uncertainty indeed, though there is much to gain for those craving advantage. Over rivals, over foes, over the Gods themselves, perhaps. Destiny awaits us all.

We have but to grasp it.