The Lore

The tomes of history tell us that the Elven realm of Galladeer was celebrated as a symbol of prosperity throughout the known lands. Betwixt the bustling cities, glittering universities and magical forests, its diverse denizens co-existed and collaborated harmoniously.

And, for a time, the tomes of history ring true.

But eventually, as with all empires, peace and prosperity succumb to complacency.

Its rulers, unknowing of worser times, traded wisdom for wealth. The fair fae peoples, once united, fell into factions and bickered over petty disputes.

By the reign of Umberon Silverius, Galladeer was no better than its quarreling neighbors.

Even the rosiest accounts of King Umberon admit he was a lush. He cared little for the politics he had inherited. He cared much for feasts and fornication. He took many lovers, though refused to marry. He had many children, though none of them legitimate. He saddled them with gold and packed them off with their mothers to distant palaces.

Except for one.

Duchess Deerella insisted the King be a father to their son. To the court’s shock, he begrudgingly agreed. Initially, there was happiness for this unlikely family. It didn’t last.

Oberon Silverius would endure a childhood filled with torment and cruelty at the hands of his unloving father. As the boy grew, so did the King’s resentment of him.

Forced into the role of cupbearer, Oberon would languish at his father’s side, feast after feast.

Until one, final, fateful feast.

It was an unremarkable occasion that did not warrant the size nor spectacle afforded to it. Nevertheless, the ostentatious celebration provided the perfect stage to execute a plot.

The conspirators had planned for their work to be swift and quiet. But, with a fumble here and a spilled-secret there, the precise assassination they had intended became an all-out brawl.

Oberon stood dumbfounded as he watched his father burst into a thousand specks of ash. Trails of destructive magick lit the patio into a gruesome fireworks display as loyalists and conspirators hurled spell after spell.

His mother, clutching her scorched arm, commanded him to run. Ducking and dodging, the two of them fled to the darkness of the palace garden. Amongst the roses, she embraced him for the last time. Through torrents of tears, she mouthed an incantation, lay one burned hand on her son and clutched her pendant with the other.

As Oberon slipped secretly inside the gemstone, Duchess Deerella slumped onto the soil. Expended. Dead.

The Duchess was interred in her family tomb, far from the capital, wearing her finery, clutching her pendant. Oberon was presumed dead, caught in the same blast that had torched his father.

The chaos that ensued sparked a struggle for power that would last for nearly a century. Galladeer was plunged into a dark age of constant war. Dozens of contenders pressed their claims to the throne – all of dubious provenance, all disputed, all short-lived.

Decades after her death, the legend of Duchess Deerella’s sacrifice was questioned. Was it really myth? Much effort was spent to release Oberon from his crystal cage – assuming he was there at all.

His potential survival became a beacon of hope for Galladeerians: a true (enough) Silverius, untainted by the foul play of civil war, with a clear(ish) claim to the Elven throne. Perhaps, under him, his peoples could be united once again.

However, he cannot rebuild this once great realm alone. A hundred years of war has gutted the land of its knights, dames, lords, ladies, dukes and duchesses.

Are you willing to take up the mantle?