The Great Alliance

A history of the great alliance.

When the last rays of hope for the world faltered, the races banded together to form an alliance. The 'Great Alliance' they called it, but in reality it was a pitiful thing; the death-throes of mortal-kind.

As the Gods slowly died out, or simply left this world, religious groups and churches across the world gathered in quiet mass, searching for anything holy still left. **Elven** mystics threw themselves into unbroken trances, **Human** priests sang praises and hymns that roared into the skies, **Dwarven** clerics delved into forgotten fortresses, poring over ancient and crumbling tomes, and **Kobold** shamans communed with the land.

All prayed for  **The Pantheon's** return, and all found one last glimmer of hope.

The island far out to sea, home of the Human dukedom of Espérer and the Dwarven fortress of Kulsim Emen, was home to an unsullied deity.

The word was put out, to the far corners of the globe and promised a possible chance of a new hope for those that would answer it. Migrants came from far and wide as vast ports were established; little more than shanty towns focused solely on the production of one thing: a fleet.

The Humans, skilled in the ways of carpentry and ship-building, took the brunt of the labour upon themselves. Their populations were still the largest after the millennia since the Gods started to fall. Their colossal shipyards constructing everything from the largest man-o-wars, to the smallest sloops. With the help of the Elves, huge tracts of land were converted to gardens solely producing alchemical ingredients. The Human alchemists toiled day and night; concocting potions that would enhance a soldier's abilities, distilling tinctures that would aid bone-growth, or simply producing oils that would ensure the wooden frames of the ships would last longer.

The Dwarves brought offered what little ships they had access to, for the majority of their race stayed away from the sea. Metal-clad warships; some powered by steam and coal, others by the sinewy arms of the Dwarven oarsmen below decks, streamed into the harbours. The Dwarves, masters of metallurgy and blacksmithing, took it upon themselves to forge everything needed by the endeavour; nails, chains, cannons, tools, swords, and armour. If a nearby mountain, or rocky outcropping, showed any sign of ores or coal, it was quickly turned to rubble under their pickaxes.

The Elves, with their spiritual knowledge and mastery over nature, seeded monstrous forests around the port-towns. Ever mindful of the potential harm they were causing the land, even now, they would always sow more trees than they destroyed. With their dirges and songs they sung forth great ships from the colossal trees they had grown.

The Kobolds, having little knowledge in the ways of metalwork, or ship-building, applied their skills to what they knew best; hunting and getting into small spaces. The other races did not want for food as the Kobolds enticed animals from far and wide to the nearby countryside; hunting what ever moved. When a ship was being constructed, a veritable horde of Kobolds would be swarming over it; driving in nails, caulking planks and other smaller tasks.

Eventually the seemingly impossible task was completed, and the mighty fleet stood waiting in the harbour. As the admirals of the various ships took charge, they sailed away from the crumbling world. As the fleets departed they left the remainders of their kin behind; those of each race who refused to leave their homes were left to wither and die by the absence of their deities.

Enduring a sea with no God to rule over it, they eventually arrived close to the island. However, as all eyes looked from the bows, they were greeted with the sight of an immense storm shrouding the area. The ships anchored together and onto the bedrock below, waiting for the storm to pass. For days they calmly waited, but the storm would not falter, even for a second.

As resources started to lower, the admirals ordered the fleet to brave the storm. Mammoth waves rose higher than the masts of the tallest flagships, crashing down and sundering the mighty boats into splinters. Wooden masts were cracked in two, metal plating was buckled and battered, countless lives were lost overboard as the ships slowly made their way through the maelstrom.

The survivors washed up on the shores of the island, a tiny fraction of those who had set off. Some believe that most of the ships were forced to turn back and possibly return to the now-godless lands they came from. Perhaps the remains of the fleet found other nearby islands to settle, content with merely living close to the realm of the last known God (or waiting out the storm). Stragglers and survivors are constantly being found drifting out at sea and being brought in to the island they almost died trying to reach.