Reforging the Ironlands

Chapter 1 of Olvir, the Forgotten

The Old World

A land of fading splendour, its beauty devoured by its people's endless hunger, we were a plague upon it, with too many mouths to feed and hands tearing at its riches. We felled ancient forests, their towering sentinels toppled and burned. Once rich with promise, the soil turned to infertile dust under the weight of our greed. Crops withered and died, leaving barren fields where plenty once reigned.

Cities brimmed with desperate souls, their alleys thick with the stench of hunger and despair. Petty kings bickered for scraps, their banners bloodied and tattered. And when the priests raised their voices in warning—pleading with us to turn back, to heal the land—we turned a deaf ear, too intoxicated by our pride to listen.

Ultimately, the land cast us out as if spitting spoiled food from its mouth. The seas became our refuge, the waves swallowing our prayers for deliverance. We left behind a world choked by the weight of its ruin, our ships laden with hope and sorrow alike. We sailed to the Ironlands, a place cruel and unyielding but untouched by our corruption.

There, we sought not merely survival but redemption—a chance to start anew, even as the sins of the Old World clung to us like shadows.

The Pillars

Across the Ironlands, they stand—a silent, immutable mystery. These foreboding monoliths rise from the earth like the bones of some ancient god, iron-grey and unyielding. Their surfaces are smooth, polished as if by the caress of an eternal river, yet untouched by time or weather.

Neither rust nor blemish mars them. Not even the sharpest blade, wielded with the fury of a desperate hand, can leave its mark upon its surface.

The earth has refused to tell the story of its origins. Some say the pillars are as old as the world, relics of a forgotten age when gods and men walked together. Others dismiss such stories as the mad ramblings of poets and priests. The Iron Priests, of course, revere them. To these devout few, the pillars are sacred. They gather at their bases, chant ancient prayers, and bind their most solemn oaths to the cold, unyielding metal.

Most, though, dare not linger near the pillars. To many, they are an omen of unseen powers, a reminder of forces vast and unknowable. Travellers who stumble upon a pillar often pause only long enough to make the warding sign, their fingers trembling, before hurrying on their way, eager to escape the oppressive stillness that clings to these ancient sentinels.

The Forgotten Ones

The iron monoliths stand as silent witnesses to a time beyond memory, a testament to a civilisation whose presence has vanished from this world's chronicles. In delves that descend into the cold, unyielding stone of the Ironlands, artefacts of strange craftsmanship have been unearthed—iron tools and relics bearing markings that defy understanding. They suggest an ancient race once thrived here, a people whose skill with iron surpassed even our boldest imaginations.

But the records—if they can even be called that—offer no illumination. The recovered fragments speak of this race only in whispers, their words veiled and uncertain. It is as though even those who recorded these accounts feared to name them outright as if the mere act of writing the truth might awaken some buried terror. What little we glean feels like smoke in the air—ephemeral and intangible.

We know nothing of their fate. They vanished from this land as shadows vanished with the dawn, leaving behind only these enigmatic relics and the cold, eternal monoliths. Did they succumb to some calamity? Did they flee? Or were they simply erased by time itself, leaving behind no more than echoes? Whatever the answer, their silence lingers over the Ironlands like a shroud, and the mystery of their extinction gnaws at the edges of reason.

The Settlements

The Ironlands are a fractured mosaic of human endurance, a land devoid of cities or sprawling towns. Here, the people live scattered and isolated, clinging to the edges of survival in small villages and "circles," each a fragile bastion against the wild, inhospitable world. These communities rarely number more than a hundred souls, their homes huddled together as if for warmth against the biting winters and the lurking dangers that prowl beyond their crude palisades.

Yet, in some corners of the Ironlands, the seeds of something greater have begun to take root. A handful of settlements now boast populations in the hundreds, their clusters of homes growing denser as bonds of trust and cooperation are forged. These burgeoning communities hum with the tentative rhythms of progress, their people daring to hope that the society they are building will endure.

But isolation remains the lifeblood of the Ironlands. Between settlements stretch leagues of untamed wilderness, where travellers face the cruel mercy of the land and the ever-present threat of the unknown. The people here are shaped by their solitude, their spirits hardened yet tethered to the fragile threads of community—a tapestry of resilience woven against the backdrop of an unforgiving world.

The Overseers

In each settlement, authority rests with an overseer—a figure of quiet power and enduring influence. Elected for a seven-year term, with the possibility of renewal, these leaders are often the elders of their communities. Age and wisdom, or at least the perception of it, are the currencies of their rise. They are the storytellers who recall winters survived and harvests hard-won, the arbiters whose long years prove their tempered judgment. Their rule is steady, if sometimes ponderous, reflecting the cautious rhythms of life in the Ironlands.

But the overseers do not govern alone. A second pillar of power looms over the settlements, enigmatic and unyielding as the iron monoliths themselves. The Iron Priests, those devoted to the gods they believe dwell within the towering relics, wield a different kind of authority—more spiritual, yet no less potent. These priests claim to hear the whispers of the divine in the cold touch of the iron, interpreting omens and divining the will of higher powers. To some, they are visionaries; to others, charlatans cloaked in the mantle of ancient faith.

The tension between these two forces—the overseers' earthly pragmatism and the Iron Priests' ethereal fervour—shapes the Ironlanders' lives. Here, in the shadow of the monoliths, governance is not merely a matter of politics; it reflects the fragile balance between survival and belief, the mundane and the sacred.

The Defenders of the Ironlands

In the scattered settlements of the Ironlands, survival often depends on the strength of one’s kin. When danger looms—be it raiders, beasts, or the dark forces whispered in fireside tales—each community turns inward, calling upon local families to form a ragged but resolute defence force. There are no banners unfurled, no standing armies marching in unison. Instead, the defenders of the Ironlands are farmers, herders, and smiths, clutching weathered weapons passed down through generations.

These makeshift militias embody the Ironlanders’ fierce independence and the deep bond of blood shared within their circles. Each man and woman who takes up arms does so not for glory but to protect the delicate life their community has forged from this unforgiving land. Victory is never assured; survival is the only reward.

Settlements exist in isolation, hemmed in by wild and hostile terrain. Contact with other villages is rare and largely practical, driven by the needs of trade. When paths converge, goods change hands alongside fleeting news of the wider world—a thin connecting thread in a land of vast solitude.

Yet, this distance between communities also means that when the wolf is at the door, a circle stands alone.

The Growing Presence of Magic

In the Ironlands, magic whispers at the edges of reality. It is a rare and fleeting force that few claim to wield, and fewer still truly understand. It is not the grand, world-shaping power of old legends but something subtle and intimate, felt in glimpses and quiet moments. Yet, as the years pass, whispers are heard that this power is stirring, growing bolder, and finding new hands to channel its mysteries.

Those who claim mastery over this arcane force are sought after and feared. Wandering mystics and ritualists peddle their services to isolated settlements, offering glimpses into the unknown with divinations and sacred rites. Their presence is often a source of tension, for while their gifts can be a boon, the shadow of mistrust follows them. Is their power truly born of the divine or some deeper, darker source?

In larger villages—those fortunate enough to support them—a seer may reside among the people. These individuals, though rare, hold a revered and sometimes uneasy place within the community. They are healers who mend wounds with whispered prayers and unguents of strange herbs, guardians who bestow blessings and boons to protect against the Ironlands' myriad dangers. To the villagers, a seer is a beacon of hope—a tether to something greater, divine or arcane.

Still, the proliferation of magic is not without its price. Where its light flickers, shadows often follow. This growing presence raises questions and fears. Will it be a salvation for the Ironlanders or a curse yet to be unravelled?

The Rise of Religion

Amid the harsh and unyielding reality of the Ironlands, a nascent flame of belief has begun to flicker. Religion, once dismissed as folly by many, is slowly taking root in the hearts of some. The majority still cling to old scepticism, convinced that if they ever existed, the gods had long abandoned this land—or that they were powerless to shape its brutal fate. Yet, whispers of a divine presence grow louder in certain circles, fuelled by those who claim to see the subtle hand of higher powers at work in this unforgiving world.

At the heart of this burgeoning faith lies the legend of the Iron God. Some say this enigmatic figure to have been the one true deity of the ancient and extinct race that once walked these lands. The Iron Priests, in particular, fan the embers of this belief, pointing to the unyielding monoliths and ancient artefacts as proof of the god’s enduring presence. The Iron God, they say, is not gone but waiting—dormant, perhaps, but watchful.

Among the devout, some argue that the path to prosperity lies in rekindling the worship of this forgotten deity. They offer sacrifices and prayers beneath the shadow of the monoliths, seeking blessings for the fledgling people of the Ironlands. Yet, this faith is not without its detractors. To many, worshipping the Iron God is an act of futility—or worse, a flirtation with powers beyond mortal reckoning.

Still, the idea spreads, carried by whispers in the wind and the fervent words of those who would shape the Ironlands' destiny through divine favour. Only time will tell whether this faith will lead to salvation or strife.

The Firstborn

For generations, the Firstborn were thought to be no more than ghosts—a vanished race whose memory lingered only in the old stories and crumbling ruins scattered across the Ironlands. They were the ancient stewards of this land, some say, its rightful inheritors, who perished in the wake of some unnamed cataclysm.

However, as the years pass, evidence has surfaced that these primordial beings are not entirely extinct.

In the deep forests, where the trees rise like sentinels and their roots clutch at secrets long buried, and in the wild Northern lands, where icy winds howl through barren crags, there are whispers of movement. Hunters speak of shadowed figures glimpsed at the edge of their vision—too tall, too lithe, to be mistaken for man or beast. Travellers returning from the north tell tales of strange tracks in the snow, of haunting melodies carried on the wind.

Though the Firstborn, if they live and keep to their solitude, their presence sparks equal measures of awe and dread. Who are they now, after centuries of silence? Guardians of the old ways or bitter relics nursing a grudge against the encroachment of mankind? Their motives remain inscrutable as the Ironlands themselves, and their survival poses questions that few dare answer.

Are they watching? Waiting? Or are they but echoes, clinging to life in the wilderness they once called home?

The Beasts of Legend

As whispers of the Firstborn’s survival spread, another unsettling tale began to ripple through the Ironlands. Travellers returning from the wilds and hunters venturing deep into the untamed lands speak of strange signs—tracks too large for any known animal, roars that split the night sky, and shadows that linger just out of sight. These accounts suggest that the beasts of the Old World once believed to be lost to time, are alive and growing in number.

Yet, for all the fervour these stories ignite, there is no proof—nobody dragged back from the wilderness, no sighting that cannot be dismissed as fear twisting the imagination. So far, the horrors chronicled in the brittle pages of ancient books remain confined to legend. The monstrous shapes that haunt old manuscripts—great serpents, winged terrors, and creatures of fire and shadow—are but echoes from another age. Or so it is claimed.

Still, doubt lingers. The Ironlands are vast, their depths largely unexplored, their secrets jealously guarded. If these beasts exist, why do they bide their time? Do they slumber, awaiting some unknown call? Or are they watching, gauging the fragile strength of humankind before revealing their hand? The rumours remain just that—fleeting as a hunter’s breath in the cold.

But in a land as perilous as this, legends have a way of clawing their way back to life.