[Maplore] Storm

[Fishy 2709]

 

The Battlefield of Unknown Gods

 

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TESTAMENT & TOMBSTONE

Sat within the Skull Sea of Azuras, the Isle of Storm rises from the dark, turbulent waters like a bastion of charred stone. Eternally battered by the elements, it has endured for over a millennia since the continent’s once Shattering, both a testament and a tombstone. Whatsoever the quarrels of the Gods, the Isle seems determined to outlast them all, yet forever shall it bear the scars of divine conflict. The skies of Storm are torn with bolts of lightning, its shores crushing all against hard stone, the howl of its wind enough to bend the trees, and the nigh incessant rain makes a quagmire of its earth. For all the hardship Storm promises, lush growth permeates the Isle, fueled by the monsoon rains of its Ever-Storm. Life here exists in a constant cycle of decay and renewal, as a palpable energy crackles in its very air. Like a gauntlet thrown down in contest, Storm invites those with the will to survive its scars to prosper in its bounty.

  

While many theories exist, few know what caused the Island to be as it is. The most commonly accepted theory is that Storm was once a battlefield for the Aengudaemonic, perhaps even a hallowed dueling ring as is so common amongst descendant cultures. Thus the island is sometimes called the Battlefield of Unknown Gods, for none can say for certain who once fought, but when the calamity of their strikes hit the earth, it forever imparted the Ever-Storm its charge. So to have adventurers, duelists, competitors, and rivals since sailed to Storm in the centuries after its discovery, braving its treacherous waters, all to settle their scores atop the Island’s peak. While it appears no magical means draws in these combatants, it has puzzled several Scholars endlessly as to why so many unrelated Warriors would make such an arduous journey to conclude their rivalries. An enigma whose answer is found only by those who live and die by their sword.

 

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TALE OF TWO COLONIES

While Storm has remained relatively unsettled throughout its history, a few attempts have been made over the centuries. Evidence of these settlements is tepid at best, as the constant deluge of the Ever-Storm has since washed away any shred of them. Of these, only two are known to have lasted any length of time. 

 

The first was a colony of seven dwarves who washed ashore, their boat put to splinters on the rocks. While they survived for near two decades on Storm’s lower ranges by digging into the rock and stripping useful ores from the surface, their's was a miserable existence. Bereft of any of their staple crops, they took to boiling the grasses, plucking the bushes, and a diet of boney fish to survive having no luck in hunting the Island's game. Moreover, on the eve of their first year the colony had run dry, depriving the dwarves of much needed intoxication. A madness soon gripped the colony as each dwarf withdrew, grappling with their personal flaws in stark sobriety. By the fifth year, over half were dead, one had died to the lightning, another was knocked off the cliffs in an attempt to corral the native rams, and two more had perished in raids on each other over suspected hoards of rum. The remaining three by this time had learned to peel the bark from the wind-blown pines to brew a whiskey, only to discover far too late its psychosis-inducing effects. By then, there was only a single dwarf who remained, clinging to life and meager survival amidst a personal hoard of trinkets made of all manner of metals and materials. It would not be for another decade before this solitary survivor was discovered, marking the next of the known attempts to colonize Storm. 

 

This second colony was one of men, exiled from their homeland for lesser and petty crimes, led by a so-called Vice-King Boyce of Setring. They had come to Azuras with a squadron of pirates biting at their heels, only managing to lose their pursuers in a wayward gale of the Ever-Storm. Shipwrecked upon Storm, they numbered no more than a hundred, yet their ship was not irreparable. In little time, they had restored their vessel, only to discover the lone survivor amidst their cargo-hold. After a swift interrogation and impressment, the Vice-King of Setring was led to the hidden treasure trove carved into the rocks, salivating over its riches as a devilish thought crossed his mind. Stepping back onto deck with a trunk laden with loot, he enticed the crew to serve under him officially, making a Lord and Duke of the First Mate and Helmsman respectively. With their loyalty secured, the crew then promoted the Vice-King to the office of King of Vice, marking the beginning of their wooden demesne. For about eight years hence the Kingdom survived, relatively well off, it had specialized in shipping and mercantile pursuits, using the stored treasures of the dwarven colony to build for itself a burgeoning enterprise. As their notoriety grew, so too did the ire of pirates, yet none could threaten the King of Vice’s base of operations on Storm. With the wealth he had amassed, the King took a prominent merchant’s daughter for a wife, and began raising a castle upon the cliffs to crown the Island. Little by little the castle was built, stone by stone, through mud and pouring rains. Eventually the day came that the last stone was laid, and neither wind or water could knock it down. And so the King of Vice announced the birth of his son, a prince, and the rise of their Kingdom to weather all. It was not but four strides from his door, on a sojourn to the docks to fetch a pail of milk and parcel of tobacco did the Ever-Storm strike, whipping into a frenzy unlike any other thus far. With a single bolt, cast like a javelin from the heavens, was the King of Vice’s castle struck down, mother, son, stones and all fell from the cliff and tumbled into the yawning sea below. The King was never the same after that, his dreams and aspirations dashed to pieces, his fleet was equally as destroyed, though enough remained to rebuild it all, should he have desired. Instead the King of Vice was found wanting, and gave no order as he spiraled into grief, matters of his state falling to the wayside. It was not long until the crew, whose loyalty was bought and paid for with baubles and trinkets, filled their pockets with what remained of the Kingdom’s wealth and departed their weeping King, no compassion to be spared by Duke or Lord. All that remained was a King, a dwarf, and the dilapidated shanty town that had once been a Kingdom. It is said the King of Vice and the dwarf took to dwelling in the former treasure trove, now empty in the colonies final days. They held great feasts with what remained of the larder, slating their thirst with barrels of pine whiskey and reminiscing of times long since past and putting on macabre plays. That was until a mudslide made the trove their tomb, forever putting an end to the colony of men and their Kingdom of Vice. 

 

 

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