Esterlen

THE CRAGENMARCH THE EMPIRE’S WESTERN FRONTIER TABLE OF CONTENTS I. Introduction II. Background and Brief History III. Map IV. Settlements and Landmarks V. Demographics VI. Government “In the long grass and amidst the moor, man hunted man, like wolves or antelopes. All might hunt who they wished. The outlaw sought refuge in the wild frontier, the shepherd completely armed, guarded his flocks, the elf sought his fortune, robbers sought plunder, the Imperial sought the Nordling and the Nordling sought the Imperial.” An excerpt from the chronicle of Malcolm Macdroch-Armas, artillery engineer in the army of Philip III, c. 1860s. I. INTRODUCTION The Cragenmarch is the westernmost region of the Holy Orenian Empire, comprising the frontier bordering the territories of the Nordling tribes and the Kingdom of Haense. At the center of these untamed lands is the eponymous Lake Cragen, cradled in a valley, the various mountains and hills forming a natural border with which the area is roughly defined. Cragenmarch is mostly associated with the greater subregion of Outer Arentania within the Empire, however, it does possess a number of characteristics which render it unique. To the east lies the remainder of Outer Arentania, including Halstaig, and the forebodingly steep Arentanian alps. Lake Halstaig constitutes the easternmost point of Cragenmarch. Cragenmarch is of a temperate climate and consists mainly of rolling grasslands and karst rock formations. Perilous fens dominate the central north-west of the region. Despite the verdant appearance of those areas fed by the waters of the lake and its adjoining streams, the Cragenmarch is deceptively dry, with relatively little rainfall year-round. The climate becomes drier with greater proximity to the Cloud Mountains in the north, just over the Nordling border. The grasslands, and sparse trees, make it ideal pastoral land for grazing sheep, albeit unsuitable for growing most crops. Strange flora and fauna unknown anywhere else in the Empire thrive on this frontier, fostering a unique and thus-far mostly undisturbed ecosystem. Despite Imperial settlement, Cragenmarch is effectively a lawless land, and is one of the poorest regions of the Empire with very little noteworthy economic productivity. It exists on the fringes of the country and in the recesses of the Imperial public consciousness, having a reputation as a bleak land full of unsavory characters. Emperor John VIII’s victory at the Battle of Outer Arentania, 1821. II. BACKGROUND AND BRIEF HISTORY The Cragenmarch was officially brought into the Empire with the signing of the Treaty of Providence in 1824, the document whereby the unified Nordling tribes surrendered to Emperor John VIII after their ill-fated invasion, known to historians as the Tenth Nordling War. Prior to that time, the region was effectively terra nullius - no man’s land - serving as a buffer between the Empire and the Nordlings. The original etymology behind the name ‘Cragenmarch’ is thought to originate from the Nordling krag, or kragen, believed to mean ‘fortress’. This terminology originates from a mistranslation involving a group of Imperial surveyors who made first contact with a tribe of hospitable barbarians. Through the medium of a poorly-equipped translator, the cartographers inquired as to the name of their tribe. The barbarians, who thought that the explorers were asking the name of their hill-fort, responded that it was the ‘krag’. These tribesmen would become known to Imperials as the Kragens, and this name subsequently lent itself to the nomenclature for the broader region. The Kragens - whose true name was never discovered - would eventually disappear without a trace, their fort subsequently becoming overrun with criminals and dubbed Fort Alba. For many decades after the Tenth Nordling War and Imperial acquisition the frontier remained uninhabited by civilized parties, with most regional investment focused on closer and more arable parts of Arentania. Settlement of Cragenmarch began in earnest in the 1850s, when Borderpost Centurion was constructed as an Imperial State Army outpost. In that same decade, the Duke of Azor’s government invited a number of Uradran dark elven clans to colonize the borderlands and guard them against the rapacious tribesmen to the north. There are some rumors that there is silver to be found in Cragenmarch, as exists in the remainder of Arentania. However, thus far, prospectors who have ventured to the region have left disappointed, or not at all. “Never shoulda come here!” A former Alstionish aristocrat, having fallen on hard times and taken up life as a Cragenmarch outlaw. III. MAP Preliminary surveys complete. Map to be published at a later time. An Uradran hunting camp in the hills of the Cragenmarch. IV. SETTLEMENTS AND LANDMARKS Fort Alba Originally constructed as the krag of a local barbarian tribe whose endonym is lost to history, Fort Alba was later settled by Imperial exiles when these tribesmen disappeared without a trace. The exiles were rebel supporters of the forgotten Alstion family, who later turned to itinerant banditry and named the castle Fort Alba, after one of their old holdings. The gang of outlaws terrorized the Cragenmarch for decades using Fort Alba as their hideout, until they were driven off in 1860. Since that time, Fort Alba has served as the seat of the governor of Cragenmarch. Despite its new occupants, it retains the decrepit character of a bandit hideout far more than it resembles a governor’s residence. Bosara Bosara is a village founded and inhabited by the semi-nomadic Uradran clans as part of their colonization of the Cragenmarch. It is a small hamlet where dark elves tend to their cash crops. Centurion Centurion is an Imperial Army outpost in Cragenmarch on the borders of Nordlingia, erected in 1856. It is poorly garrisoned and is primarily used to observe the tribes from a safe distance. Crowsvetch The tower of Crowsvetch is a mysterious building located in the southern part of Cragenmarch, near to the road leading into the region. It is rumored to be home to a conclave of dark wizards, although this is surely an exaggeration. Edenia Edenia is a small village in the northwest of Cragenmarch, atop a mountain that forms a natural barrier with the land of the Nordling tribes. Very little is known about the tribe who inhabits it, the Edenites, although they are not believed to be related to the Nordlings. Nordlingfall Nordlingfall is the colloquial name for the location of the Battle of Outer Arentania, where the Imperial Army defeated the invasion of the united Nordling tribes in 1821. Thousands of combatants from both sides are buried here, which attracts the interests of both historians and rogue necromancers. It is a dour and unnerving place where one cannot dig for half-an-hour without finding bones. Seamus O’Carroll, a notorious Harrenite highwayman and living folk hero in the Cragenmarch. V. DEMOGRAPHICS Life in Cragenmarch is bleak, and so those that survive here are typically hard, ruthless and miserly. The region is thinly populated. The Harrenite presence is more evident in the east, closer to Lake Halstaig. Non-Harrenite Imperials are settled in the area mostly as part of the barebones Imperial governance of the province, including the rare soldier. Semi-nomadic dark elves known as Uradrans constitute the majority of the region’s population, having settled the pastoral grasslands at the invitation of the Duke of Azor some time in the 1850s. These mali’ker clans are experts at living in harsh and unforgiving locales, forming semi-military communities in order to thrive in the most inhospitable of places. Warbands of Nordlings or stateless criminals, bandits and highwaymen are frequently found wandering Cragenmarch or encamping themselves in cave hideouts. As an Imperial province, the overwhelming majority of the region’s inhabitants are Imperial subjects, and the humans of this number typically belong to the Canonist faith. However, most Uradrans confess a mysterious religion known as the Kheltiruai. Polytheistic folk faiths are also intermittently present in the area. Low Imperial (Common), Ancient Elven and Nordling are all spoken to varying degrees in the Cragenmarch. “The Cragenmarch is the far country, beyond which Nordlings scratch a living off rocks. There are insects there the size of dogs, nothing grows, and it is full of dark elves. There’s nothing there worth crossing the alps for. But if you’re hiding from the law… that’s a different story.” Vincente Falcone, an Imperial ‘businessman’ of ill repute, c. 1859. VI. GOVERNMENT As a frontier province on the fringes of the Empire, Cragenmarch is one of the least efficiently run places in the country. Crime and corruption are both rampant. The local government frequently pays raucous outlaws to keep the order as an amateur police force, however, other outlaws extort the locals under threat of violence. There are not substantially enough Imperial soldiers garrisoned there to make a difference. The current governor of Cragenmarch is Horace Strickland, a grossly obese Imperial gentryman who comes from a long line of colonial administrators dating back to the early 18th century. List of governors of Cragenmarch Horace Strickland (1859 - present)

The red-clad dark elf, Drelyth Remnevani, had been stationed to the Duke of Azor’s bodyguard during the siege. He was the only combatant among this particular group who practiced the sorcerous arts, and so it fell to the ashen-skinned adept to monitor and ward off any hexes that might be cast on the Empire’s first minister, should they have deployed mages. There were a few wizards on the Urguanite side, but none of them had particular interest in going after Azor, which proved a relief to Remnevani. He was a huge man to protect. The Army Group Center administrator who had assigned him to this station had woefully underestimated how many sorcerers it would need to protect the Duke from any serious magicians. With that much surface area to cover, Drelyth estimated around three, and three considerably better at their craft than he was. “Tally-ho, men! Over the breach!” screamed the corpulent Archchancellor from atop his palanquin, his fieldmarshal’s baton flailing around, clasped by fat fingers. Out of the corner of his red eyes, Remnevani could see a dwarven infantryman approaching the palanquin. A glint of orange was visible across the dark elf’s face as he connected to the void, and a few moments later, an immensely-fast fireball shot out of a flourish of his grey right hand. The dwarf, who was hit square in the chest, fell down into a ditch created by wanton cannonfire.

The ghostly spectre of Frederick Armas materialises in Sir Charles’ solar in Rivia, shrouded in shadow and framed by the moonlight. “Put the sabre down, Galbraith! It is not the way,” says the vision of the slack-jawed Harrenite solicitor. A nurse barges into Sir Charles’ room, and the spectre vanishes as quick as it came. “Who are you talking to, you old fool?” she asks, before forcibly administering to him another dose of laudanum.

The red-robed dark elf, Drelyth Remnevani, brings the Baron of Arichsdorf news of this engagement, having returned to the Westergrenz from Providence along his usual route. He withdraws a parchment report from within one of the many pockets in his silk-and-chitin tunic. “Good news from Lower Petra once again, serah,” he offered to the Baron, voice thick with his clipped elvish accent. @Narthok

Goran Goldhand reads about this event in the papers, smirking with yellowed teeth at the misfortune of the Nordlings. He had never liked them - bad for business, typically. His father once owned a pub in their capital city, and the fights drove him into bankruptcy. It was truly a dystopian hellscape. However, something about the notice gave the dwarf pause. That burning building - it was his concrete apartment block, one of his few remaining investments in the lands of Nordlingia and Haense. “Noooooooo!” he screeched raucously. That foul tyrant, Philip Parricida, had ruined another one of his assets. The merchant swore to Anbella that this would be the final time. He would get his revenge on those Imperials. With a huff, Goran mounted his carriage and made way to Providence.

Goran Goldhand smirks quite dwarvenly. The human clergy, high on the ecstasy of their covenant with Dungrimm, Anbella and Yemekar, now aligned themselves fully with Urguan’s chosen people. Soon, the Temple of the Brathmordakin would be in full communion with the Church of the Canon. All was going to plan.

Drelyth Remnevani cheers as the two noblemen fall through the gallows in quick succession, raising his staff into the air in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. It was not like him to take up arms for any cause, and his peculiar, mali'ker manner of speech gathered some awry looks from those witnessing the public execution.

Goran Goldhand viciously beats his son, Soran Goldhand, upon hearing of this defeat. That foul tyrant, Philip III, had routed the massed army of Anbella, Dungrimm, Yemekar and the Fidei Defensor. There would be no temple to the King of Haense built in Urguan after this failure - his life's work, finished! Now, the dwarvish merchant would need to find alternative investment strategies. Perhaps if he begged enough, the Emperor would issue him a blanket pardon? After all, many banks in Providence owed their liquidity to his connivance. For today, though, Goran was content to drunkenly abuse his adult son in a fit of poorly-controlled rage.

At this exclamation, Goran Goldhand brandishes his cat o' nine tails, flogging Louis rather brutally on the backside. This was his fourth flogging of the day, and it was not yet noon. The dwarf hoped to have carved an idol to Dungrimm out of the welts in Louis' back by at least sundown. "Get back te werk, ye worthless VASSAL! That barley will nae reap itself, umri-bastard!"

“Nooooo!” screeches Goran Goldhand, having escaped prison once more. That church was to due be converted into a joint temple to Anbella and the Fidei Defensor. “Nevermoind,” says the dwarven trader to no one in particular. “Let’s look on t’broight soide. Now those slaves - er, ‘trusted vassals’ - will ‘ave to purchase Urguanish labor to build t’new temple t’the Brathmordakin.” @Taketheshot

“The Urguanites may be perfidious, but there are none as faithless as the men who serve them. They are race traitors, and they will be damnatio memoriae - their names forever dishonored!” A quote attributed Emperor John I, progenitor of the Johannians and the House of Alstion, who conquered most of Urguan in the 16th century (c. 1540).

Goran Goldhand crawls out of a hole somewhere in occupied Lower Petra. The dwarvish merchant wanders for a few hours, finally reaching the road, where he came across a Haeseni garbed in black and yellow. “Hail to the Fidei Defensor!” the dwarf screeched in greeting, “Oi have been hidin’ from an Imperial host, but now there be no soign of ‘em. Can ye escort meh back to Havelock?” Goran needed to return to the Sedanite-occupied town sooner rather than later. He had a seminar on the Brathmordakin and dwarven military history to teach the locals there. The Haeseni spoke, but he did not sound like any Haeseni the dwarf had met before. As it so happens, he was an Imperial free company militiaman, and yellow and black just turned out to be his family colours. Before nightfall, Goran Goldhand was back in prison in Providence. He ought to have remained in that hole after all.

The merchant, Goran Goldhand, knew precious little of human succession laws. However, he did know that he would get his revenge on the Duke of Azor for killing his trusted solicitor, Carapolla, and taking him captive. Fat fingers gripped around the wrought iron bars until his knuckles went white - from within the cage, the dwarf screeched at Azor, cursing him in the name of the Fidei Defensor.

Goran Goldhand slaps his knee rather lecherously, reading about the declaration in the paper. With the defeat of that foul tyrant Philip III at Southbridge, he had been able to escape Providence. Now he had taken an assignment surveying Urguanite-occupied Lower Petra, searching for rare minerals that the Imperial eye was wont to overlook. “Carapolla, have ye read about this in the papers?” he smirked quite dwarvishly. ”We must make our way to her court immediately. That old Imperial crone prefers dwarves - an’ we must do our civic duty t’Anbella by - hrm - servicin’ her, hohoh!”

Goran Goldhand clutched his talisman to Anbella, praying to her and the other gods of the Brathmordakin for the death of these Canonist curs. Sadly, the dwarvish pantheon were not with the men of Stone Tower this day, and they fell before the Imperial troopers. So, Goran prayed instead to the magnificence of the Fidei Defensor, the newest god of the pantheon - with the King of Haense’s blessing, those Canonist heathens would be turned to Yemekar’s light... next time.

“This idea of yer’s better work, Carapolla!” whispered Goran Goldhand to his solicitor, Carapolla, from their hiding place. The merchant had procured a Krugmarish blow-dart, laced with a lethal paralytic, specially for situations like this. Obscured between the creaking rafters of the Orenian frigate, he put the blowgun between his lips and loosed the dart in the direction of Alexandre Ashford, a hated retainer of that tyrant Philip III. Sadly, having underestimated the capacity of his own lungs, Goldhand’s dart flew long past Ashford and into the neck of an unsuspecting Ferryman, who doubled over and fell into the ocean. In the fray of battle, this all went unnoticed, and so Goran and Carapolla resorted to smaller yet somewhat mischievous acts of sabotage. They were shocked, then, when the frigate of Yemekar’s chosen people was eventually scuttled by the Imperials. How could this happen?

I will destroy this false magistrate. This wig-wearing scullion. His time has run out! Signed G.G

With the battle's conclusion, Goran Goldhand emerges from his hiding place in a crate of barley. It seems the mercenaries retained by his brethren had routed once again in their assault of the Imperial city. It appeared that he and his sequestered riches would not escape their captivity by the tyrant Philip III - at least not this time.

Goran Goldhand trembles in fear of a pogrom, running to the nearest branch of the Denims-Therving bank as fast as his stout legs can carry him.

14 HF 1836. The news of the Regency of 1836 dominated the papers both broadsheet and tabloid. Plastered upon nigh on every page was a column, editorial or commentary about His Imperial Majesty's health or the future of the country. A keen reader, however, would notice a small paragraph in the bottom right corner of the seventh page of one of the more unsavory tabloids (near to the comedy section) little more than a footnote. George Stanislaus Kovachev (1750–1836) George Kovachev, Surveyor-General of the Holy Orenian Empire, died in Providence today, the Fourteenth of Harren's Folly, in the year of our Lord Eighteen-Thirty-Six. Haeseni by birth, Mr. Kovachev had been an Imperial subject for all of his adult life. Fittingly in the eyes of this gazette, he met his expiration after having consumed a large meal, consisting of lobster, caviar, sauerkraut, kippers and brandy, finished with his favorite pastry, prikaz pie.

A lowly acolyte hails the Prince of Elvenesse, green book in hand. "Aspects protect our Oranor!" he proclaims, saluting.

Locked away in a hoary, faraway mausoleum, the ghost of Frederick Armas appreciates this idea... @Lhindir_